Today she went fairy shopping,
Her skirt, red plaided its way
Through the mall to a counter.
There, under glass, fairies tagged and gilded
Waited for her inquisition.
Wings aloft but stationery in the metal
A face soft but not to be discerned.
Holding a flower of alexandrite
Rare as dirt.
Floating to her finger, sharp wingtips
Cut her skin, baring the monuments of
Bone and muscle on which fairies feast.
Jarred the fairy ring fell to the ground.
Edges of skin found each other, pushing out
Dreams of other worldliness.
No fairies will be bought today.
She saved her coin
and drank cold coffee.