It
was the night of the hunter’s moon, the full moon after the harvest. It was
cold. You could see your breath. The fields were stripped and white as a broken girl.
I
found her in that hollow place. Her name, written in stone. Where
the trees are dark as men who think too much and the wind hisses.
These words, they are no longer mine. You make of them what you will. Once
they’re penned, and you read them, my words belong to you.
As she belongs to me. I heard her cry, I rescued love where it was
left. I brought her here, and dressed her in warm clothes.
I
have made her whole, with only the simplest things. Baking soda. Salt. Old buttons for her eyes. I gave her pretty feet black shiny shoes.
I am
poor. I make do with what I have. The rest I find in trash bins, alleyways and
the like. I am not proud. I will take what falls from your table.
In the morning, I give her tea. At night, I comb her hair. She does not smile. She
won’t smile falsely, either.
You
will say that it’s a crime. Or out of pity, say I’m ill. You will hollow out a place
for me where men think too much.
Do
with me as you like, and my words as well. Hold them as you would a torch or scatter them like embers.
You,
who tossed her aside like a Christmas tree after New Year’s. Who put her in the ground and call it proper, even holy.
You, who
dress in black and weep, and call me
mad.
These
words, they are no longer mine once they leave my lips. Now they belong to you, who left her where the crosses stand, the moon bright as love.
She was cold. I could see my breath.
Now
she belongs to me.