married to the woods. Once,
a man grabbed her by the Talk—
her only knowing. Thereafter, she
grew tall, the hills were nothing-
loomings, the doom was in her.
She pet her sāwol on Sundays.
There is no wandering ache
in fairy tales. They have the look
of history: sealed as fruit, born
& beared, away. And words
can be so round, she thought,
givable, & in a basket. Carried
to a crone, not for comfort
but for Being. She was a lȳtel story,
on a pony bright & white as she,
alone, & uncaring of this, ultimately.
All day long she kneaded a Myth—
fragrant, though she never tasted it.
All Myths are saltless! she moaned,
& listened for what happened next.
Sometimes she dressed up in Fame.
She lit up the woods in her flameless
costume. No one saw. She liked her well
of clear, cold water turning dark. Knots
were interesting to her, & knives to cut
them with. The mind, a knuckle to be
gnawed. Flesh & bone, no secrets at all.
Her mynde was Work.
Her beings were her own.