The Woodcutter’s Daughter
Long before the Grimm’s brothers shut down their law firm,
and owned up to their art,
I shuddered swiftly from shadow to shadow,
the big bad pursuing.
To where? For what?
All I knew was to hide or keep going.
Yours was a story slipped from God through me,
through my mother,
through her mother
through the mother before,
erupting first through Eve.
Just like Eve, I hid behind the moon white gardenias,
longing with bruised desire,
waiting for its scent to keep its promise
and return us to the garden.
Distracted by my longing, I forgot everyone else, especially you,
the sweet and innocent Woodcutter’s Daughter.
selectively listening, strung out by half-baked understanding
throwing the Woodcutter’s wealth to the false fires
of what kept me cold and hungry.
But then the Grimm’s caught wind of our story, arrived
just after big bad hid his fangs in a rumor,
stuffed his claws in a lie and delivered his most persuasive speech.
Seeing me worry-weak, settling for lesser than less,
they sent you from The Woodcutter’s hearth
and into my world with your luscious basket
and the red hooded cape I forced you to wear.
But for your timely pleas, your child-like cries for help,
your unfaltering dependence on The Woodcutter, I
would have been dead consumed, our story lost in