The tower traps an unknown girl,
a golden corona of buttercups
wound in her tawny hair.
Her legs are crossed, confined
by tacky chemical wallpaper, bleached-bright linens,
woolen drapes hung from rusted nails.
Our heroine is hidden
behind dry walls patched
with white mud, a false wall.
The tower talks to her, shouting tales,
stories she wants to topple until there is no sound
but the bricks crashing, splitting,
falling.
Towers like this one
stand straight in grey suits,
waving money, issuing orders,
all without moving.
It is less a pillar,
more a prod, pushing her
to the edge, the open window.
Inside that bright box, sunlight illuminates
until it blinds. The window is both
an exit, an entry.
She will not stray before
understanding what she sees,
attaining a measured certainty
that she’s tall enough to leave.
