Her tower smelled 
like Parliament Lights. 
The Princess of Nowhere 
Special in New York danced 
in pink and pastel purple satin 
on a community stage. She hid 

her piercings, covered tattoos 
with opaque tights and dyed 
her hair blue-black. At night 
she listened to the Pixies, 
scraped resin from glass bowls. 

Hung over, she rested 
her chin, elbow 
on a window sill, on a dead end 
street. No prince rang the bell, just 
an older boy on a silver horse. He 
locked her in the trunk and rode 
down Lincoln Avenue to Untermeyer Park. 

She emerged the opposite 
of a Phoenix. Her blonde roots fraying 
from her ballerina bun. A troll wielding a cane 
demanded she lie on the stone altar. 
She lifted her long, black skirts 
and pissed on its foot. 

Bio: Bernadette McComish