How easy to be left for damsel: to lie in a forest
for days, unseen, on a bed of thick needles
and not get pricked. Hold time in place under her
tongue, hold the last flower of air in her chest
to see what will happen—what will bloom and wilt.
When a girl can dream and not be frightened
of the years ahead of her yet to be lived, alone
in myrtle and moss. When she can see the animal’s
teeth for its shine and not for the bite, the hurt
it leaves on her.
The crows mournful at the mouth of the cave
she reads as a sign of leaving: the world empty
of her. She of clipped wings, glistening with drama,
so pretty to look at, so stiff with misuse.
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