Someone messed with my story when I was still young,
trying to bend it like a bonsai tree
and so I wrapped it in paper and hid it away
in the throat of a bird, clandestinely.
I was obliged to call my assaulter "mother"
and expected to pretend devotion.
Her mask was on her face so long
that her true face had become the illusion.
Grown, I went where the robins gathered
and found the cardinal who carried my loss.
It was in a grave, wrapped with quilts,
but had marked its place with two twigs crossed.
I put it back in my body and felt its ice,
then its beat and its fine red heat.
There is nothing I love more than the thing
I smuggled past the killer-- the best of me.
That is not to say that all survived--
those who say they love are heard as fakes,
assassins or fools; give this hungry woman jewels
and see what a pretty figure my turned back makes.
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for Word Garden Word List--Sula
Music: Damien Jurado Orphans in the Key of E