Bedtime Story for the Bruised-Hearted
The trees were all women once,
fleeing a god whetted with lust
until their fathers changed them, bound
their bodies in bark, and still the god took:
a branch to crown his own head,
the reeds to hold his breath.
How like them, our fathers,
those small gods who unearthed
their children with rage,
who scored the bark
and bent the branch
to bind their bodies with our own.
Tonight, my love, we are free
of men, of gods, and I am a river
against you, drawn to current and eddy,
ready to make, to be unmade.