untitled fairy poem

‘don’t point
your finger’
my father

used to say
‘you’ll poke
holes in the air
and the fairies
will trip over them’

at night
in the warm
secrecy of my room
i would stab
furiously
in the darkness

laying traps
for the little
fuckers

and in the morning
my floor
would be
fish-scaled
and fossiled

with fragments
of wing

and stolen teeth