With my name, how could I help it?
named for that very one,
that keeper of lost boys,
that little hausfrau,
happily cooking and cleaning and stitching their shadows
to their heels.
Wendy could do those things.
Is it any wonder that I knew, just knew,
that I could do the same?
And so the lost boys came
and I cooked and stitched and watched.
I told them stories and tucked them in at night.
I made them promise to be careful
and never talk to strangers
and they smiled and promised,
young and gay and heartless.
But every Wendy grows up;
and so I grew and flew away
and left them to their own devices,
promises on their lips and mischief in their eyes,
and I told myself not to worry
because lost boys are like that.
They did not grow up. Lost boys don't.
One by one they loosed the stitches on their heels
and lost their shadows once again.
And it was not my fault.
It's just that I wasn't there, wasn't watchful,
There are more boys now, lost or not.
I cook and clean and stitch their lives together
and deftly sew my shadow to their heels.
I don't believe their promises
and I never look too closely in their eyes,
but I leave the window open
and I keep the candle burning
and I clap and clap and clap
because I do believe.
About the Author:
Wendy Froud's poetry has appeared in Sirens, an anthology of mytho–erotic fantasy, as well as in the Journal of Mythic Arts. She's also a sculptor, a designer for films, and an internationally acclaimed doll artist whose work has been featured in three children's books: A Midsummer Night's Faery Tale, The Winter Child, and The Faeries of Spring Cottage.
Lost Boys (inspired by J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan) is copyright c 2004 by Wendy Froud, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission