I do not remember the calluses
on the hands of my lover, how they
helped me slake my petals
as a snake sheds skin, caressed
me into a new and angry shape.
I was an idle dream-child, a flower-face,
a wish made woman and warm,
born of oak and broom-blossoms.
I was a soft body glowing out of
meadow-sweet leaves and earth,
a clandestine meeting of rain and sun.
I was the answer to a curse,
the solution to the problem of mothers,
to the desires of others, a cure.
I do not remember the becoming,
the feather-sprouting, the leg-losing,
the punishment, the vanishing
into bird-form, the loss of day.
I am the flute of the night,
the silent wings, the enemy
of all things small and scurrying.
Do not mistake me
for a defeated being. I
am a spirit built from nothing.
I am a verse that has
outlasted form.