Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale

Nothing to be afraid of—

neither the forest, nor the river,

not the broken,

but maybe the stranger, 

a fire, somewhere, still burning,

smell of smoke in the hair and held in the sleeves.

Night is woven with branches,

the sky, a thatched roof, pin pricked with stars.

A cottage, a crone

so alone she would eat children

to keep them from leaving.

In the morning, the river through a strainer, a sieve,

a traveler speaks a language you knew but outgrew.

Grief is a shawl you wear close for the warmth,

pails of milk crusted in ice, the hands gloved in blue.

In the year you died,

someone came looking.

Came to the door, came in a dream.

Came tapping, her white stick

fanning the blind ground before her,

hem of a hoop skirt skimming the lawn,

her hand reading the braille of blades.

Nothing to be alarmed by—

neither the field, nor the ruined,

not the station with its cover of silence,

but maybe the ghost

reciting a lake made of fire.

The ship floating over the sleeves,

the water still burning.

Night is a coffin of branches,

the sky, a pitched roof with its drizzle of stars.

A castle, a queen, so lonely

she would cripple her children

so they wouldn’t walk off.

Morning is sifted, panning for fog.

A peddler speaks a made-up language you know.

Desire, a corset, laced and pulled tight,

pails of milk blued over, the hands gloved in snow.

In the year you were born,

someone came asking.

Came to front, to the back,

came in a vision.

Came pecking, a bird with a beak to the ground,

a hoop and a stick in the hands of a child,

hemmed in and skirting the square,

a letter night written in blades.