In the morning I birth a sisterhood of sugar birds. Silk-circle throats and beaks made of drachma. We take tea in the aviary converted for this purpose. I instruct the birds to use the bathroom in the corner. Babies never listen. I don crimson lipstick and invite the villagers in to take photos. Invite them into the private velvet of the backroom for my cognac kisses of complicit. I let them use the corner bathroom after. Treat everyone the same.
By afternoon, the birds are teen birds, burrowing for gold in our boudoir garden. A charmer of a garden. A matriarch of gardens. It’s a violet-eyed, debutante afternoon, welcoming us with sweetmeat arms. We grow plump on religion and grease. By late afternoon, we run out of gods and chocolate. Our sugar plum angels melt into syrup. We are out we are out. We form a parade to visit the castle.
Bronze pet peacocks in fake fox fur carry the coins to give to the castle-man. My father is rampant on the throne again, my mother squished between he and his mistress. The sugar birds bow. The peacocks cock. The castle-man calls for a cognac kiss. All of them ignore my sister, the princess, weeping red tears on her tiny gold throne. Her tiny fist of scream frozen in silence.
Title after Diane Williams.