No way back then, you remember, we decided,
but forward, deep into a wood
so darkly green, so deafening with birdsong
I stopped my ears.
And that high chime at night,
was it really the stars, or some music
running inside our heads like a dream?
I think we must have been very tired.
I think it must have been a bad broken off
piece at the start that left us so hungry
we turned back to a path that was gone,
and lost each other, looking.
I called your name over and over again,
and still you did not come.
At night, I was afraid of the black dogs
and often I dreamed you next to me,
but even then, you were always turning
down the thick corridor of trees.
In daylight, every tree became you.
And pretending, I kissed my way through
the forest, until I stopped pretending
and stumbled, finally, here.
Here too, there are step-parents, and bread
rising, and so many other people
you may not find me at first. They speak
your name, when I speak it.
But I remember you before you became
a story. Sometimes, I feel a thorn in my foot
when there is no thorn. They tell me,
not unkindly, that I should imagine nothing here.
But I believe you are still alive.
I want to tell you about the size of the witch
and how beautiful she is. I want to tell you
the kitchen knives only look friendly,
they have a life of their own,
and that you shouldn’t be sorry,
not for the bread we ate and thought
we wasted, not for turning back alone,
and that I remember how our shadows walked
always before us, and how that was a clue,
and how there are other clues
that seem like a dream but are not,
and that every day, I am less
and less afraid.
Marie Howe
Little Bristling Soul 