They say she is eleven now.
Although I think she should be twelve.
It doesn’t matter what I think.
No longer do I have a claim.
It matters, though, that she is well.
That she’s again in dancing dress.
That dancing brings her friendship, joy.
And not the trauma left behind.
It matters, though, that she is loved.
Her parents seem so nice, so sweet.
They value her and give her time.
They fill her with the care she needs.
They say she likes the box of books
I sent her all those years ago.
They say she thinks she’s Gryffindor.
I think she’s right. She _is_ so brave.
They say she still has nightmares, though.
Of men with betel-juicy lips.
Of prickly beards and calloused hands.
They say she comes to them to cry.
I wish the darkness of my dreams
Could suck the darkness scarring her.
I will trade-off a thousand dreams
To gift her nights of blissful sleep.