Dana M. Perry – herbalist

Now everything she wears is blue. 

Pure blue, she says (no bunny prints or dots or white stripes in between)

One exception: sparkles are ok, but only in pink

(The logic eludes me, but I’m not the one making the rules)

She pushes me from the living room rug (her stage) to the other side of the room

This part is just Elsa, she says, I am Elsa, you’re Anna.

Arms open wide, her tiny voice swells “Don’t let them in, don’t let them see

Be the good girl you always have to be”

Her rhythm – perfect, her pitch – atonal. 

The end of her silk cape darkened by Brooklyn streets, the MTA, the floor at Trader Joe’s, dust from the playground

Permanent glitter dandruff from her crown (Clare’s brand from an Ohio Kohl’s)

With a single flourish of her arm she freezes the couch, a full bowl of cut strawberries, the record player, the cat

With a hearty stamp of her foot, ice begins to crackle through our inlaid hard wood.

She points her hand toward me

Now freeze, she says, music swelling to the second verse.

“It’s funny how some distance makes everything seem strong.” she bellows, climbing her diamond clear staircase toward her glittering castle in the snowcapped mountains.

“Seem small” are the actual lyrics, but I won’t correct her. I must remain still. 

Elsa needs space and I am now made of ice. 

I’m terrified of shattering; and instead prefer to melt.