Eva Skrande

It's quaint—don't want to over do the neon
yet not too simple—wood frame and rocker,
which would keep out the lovers of mansions

and pools. So it's just right,
a hint of steeple for the zealots, a needle
and thread among the pines for the imaginative,

wood floor for the ascetics.
And the souls—rows and rows of them
in all sizes, hanging from the racks

a verifiable haberdashery of pros and cons
of red philosophies and blue archetypes
winged top with long skirt

or tank tops and miniskirts for the breezy ones
among the newly-arrived fashions
for the phenomenologically exquisite

or, an entire line of clearance items—
souls with questionable owners
like dictators or a cronopios of fascists.

For those down on their luck,
recyclables, the ones that can't be easily squeezed into,
the ones missing extensions for the wings.

These belonged to the dreamers, children
who died young, lone rangers,
pacifists who swam with angelfish

and promising monks
who placed their orange robes among the violets
simply for beauty's sake.