Chlora was a bad little girl.
She pulled hair and stuck out her tongue,
unwrapped all of the gifts at the birthday parties
in the park where she jiggled the teeter-totter
so the boys would hurt their crotch.
She ran over all the mud pies with her wagon
and then busted open her Ant Farm.
Her real Aunt had an art history book
full of naked people and crucifixions and poems.
She borrowed it, hid it under her bed, and came down
with the chicken pox on purpose just to drive her Mother crazy.
All the neighborhood kids were glad.
They could run and play in the park without fearing
poison cupcakes or poo-poo jokes.
Chlora watched them from her lonely window and
pulled old Betsy Wetsy out by the hair,
disarmed her and stuck her in the oven
like that poet Sylvia Plath.
She longed to go into the woods like Hansel and Gretel and Manet,
but while quarantined she stuffed herself
with all the easy cake mixes, melted crayons
and decided that small towns were just too much for her.
One day she would grow up and become a personnel manager.
