and then grew big and could not

come out again.

The hatchet man came and did his chopping,

not caring if he clipped a finger, or a face.

Most maids must have terror

before they get their prince.

The queens suffer, too.

Not to mention the kids,

the burning witch, the wolves and the wild

pigs, anything with wings. Where

did the bread go?

Or didn’t we bring any,

thinking we were too much home

to make a trail?

˚

Now I am on my stomach by the stream,

whispering into the water. I think this is where

we drank. I think this is where

the woodcutter came, and took me by my hair,

and made me lick stone.

His eyes were not unlike your eyes. I felt the old wounds open.

I smirched the stream.

˚

Are you listening?

I can hear his boots in the bower.

ENEMY

ENEMY

When you caught your breath you smiled. Sorry you said I’m

sorry, tracing circles on my stomach. You talked in a normal

voice about something I didn’t hear and then you looked up

after a while and said Oh are you crying?

PLAGUE

PLAGUE

It came up beneath the sheet. I didn’t scream seized the hot

body brought it to my face nose to nose my hand around

its neck. If there were easier or better ways to kill a rat I did

not know them, I was in bed after all. My fingers almost met

through the flesh of its throat half asleep I was squeezing it

like a piece of fruit some enormous fury floating above us. It

wasn’t easy, I realized, to not stop yourself. That little body

beneath me, treading the air please don’t, please don’t. Too

late I let it go. Belly slack. Its eye turned to stone.

FEAST

FEAST

And yet this is where we fuck—

the mold blooming in the bath

the towel in my mouth

your come a yellow flower on the water,

my blood jeweling my thigh.

I wipe up what I can.

You open the window.

The birds eat from my hands.

HEDERA

HEDERA

We’ll tell you          something

about that

woodcutter he

isn’t       so clear       a custodian

as you think he

lets us grow       up       the glass he hates

the light    on the

TV screen       turning the picture       white

there was

a daughter       once.

A red-haired thing he          called    Creusa.

You see he was

as fond of myths       as you.       Listen that girl

left her father    to rot       and you       don’t look       anything

like her yet

he hates    you    still.    Don’t let the rumor    soften

you

pity

has no place       here       if something

is growing

and it          pleases       you

let it grow    if not       rip it       right       out

but

he has let you, too,       fill up       the windows he    wants    to see

what       you’ll       do.

Stick

or sink.

Grow feet       for the glass.

Take       the ax.