Free yourself, like a
gazelle from the hand of the hunter.
Proverbs 6:5
Bear sons.
Bind roses on cloth
with the
needle’s thread. Braid
and unbraid
hair. Look good by the light
of window or
hearth-- but say nothing
of the forest.
Open a prayer book,
sit
and pretend to
read when legs
want to leap as those of a doe
defying steep
hill and stone chasm,
when the soul
needs to shift
molding the
shape of her grace
into something
wild, furtive.
by keys and
clocks, psalms or spindle,
an orphan she found
under fir
trees where the deer
and wood
pigeons fled.
when you said you didn’t care
but simply
wanted a fair bride
to steal your
breath, to share meals
sweetened with
wine and fruit.
A maiden’s shy
smile.
growing cold
within these walls -- wanting
my pelt of fur, and not shelter
that will lay your
lady to rest
in her own
sheet of skin?
How can you ask this of me?
I weep --
with yet a knife to clean
and a tray of apples.
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