ENTERING ANNE OF GREEN GABLES' ROOM

Poetry
by
Meg Eden

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Canadian World Park, Hokkaido, Japan
 
Anne’s room looks like my own
as a girl: white & airy,
translucent curtains, a jumper
hung on the door (more for show than wear),
all neatly ordered by a mother.
 
Out her window—the silence
of an empty park—not unlike
my own yard growing up.
& that dress on her bed—I’m sure
I had one like it once—long
 
with puffed sleeves. Unlike hers,
mine was a robin’s egg blue:
one of my mother’s bridesmaid’s,
sized to fit me. I wore it to a wedding
where my cousin told me
 
I looked ridiculous. I thought
I looked romantic. After the wedding,
I studied myself in the mirror & realized
he was absolutely right: the sleeves
were half the size of my head.
 
I was a fabric bird egg, a formal
monster. Why did I think my cousin
would compliment me? I stopped
wearing puffed sleeves after that.
I imagine Anne would do the same.
 
Here in Japan, the gift shop sells
hats with red braids, women talk
about how Anne taught them how
to dream. Strange: that a word
like orphan can translate
 
into so many personal languages.
I remember laying in my room
as a girl, wondering when
I would ever meet my kindred spirit.
& I was not the only girl to do this.

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​Meg Eden's work is published or forthcoming in magazines including Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Crab Orchard Review, RHINO and CV2. She teaches creative writing at Anne Arundel Community College. She is the author of five poetry chapbooks, the novel Post-High School Reality Quest (2017), and the forthcoming poetry collection Drowning in the Floating World (2020). Find her online at www.megedenbooks.com or on Twitter at @ConfusedNarwhal.