My sister had a collection of marionettes
when she was younger
that she kept above my room
in the attic.
Ones in pink dresses
and blue dresses
and green, dangling from posts that were
screwed into the wall.
They stared downward
through the floorboards at me–
with carved smiles and tangled strings
that sat still in the daytime.
At night, I could hear them clacking,
like skeletons in the dark, waltzing in three-four
to the whippoorwill’s song.