The Devil’s In The Treehouse

by Kristin Garth

The devil’s in the treehouse just above 
the winding stair.  Knows I come alone.
Nobody’s aware how much I needed love
first time I saw his welcome face, unknown 
but not unwanted, in such a sanguine space.
He waits for me at midnight when everyone’s 
asleep to tiptoe in my nightclothes, chase 
cloven feet into the forest ‘til the sun 
appears then carries me to bed and plants 
his lips near the apex of feverish forehead.
I will wake when bidden inside a trance 
of innocence, pretend.  All is left unsaid.
Daydream, over dishes, darkness I’ll ascend  
up a winding staircase to my only friend. 

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