In olden times, when wishing still helped
there was a girl who unmade her mother
spat back her borrowed milk and unhitched her bones
from the mud.
Her father thought to lash her to the earth
but she was already rising,
and his belt could no more
hold her than you could hold the moon
from turning away her face.
She made herself a skin of stories,
stretched the names of her friends
over her good strong arms
from the sky she took the oldest stars
and set them spinning
in the mouths of children.
In her wrath she could spit lightening
that would crack stones like ice.
In her sorrow came a host of winters,
wolves that hungered for the sun.
her laughter is music, is music for always
and this could never be one of her songs
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