by Martha Collins

    Wanted that red， wanted everything tucked inside

    that red， that body， it seemed， turned inside out，

    that walking flower， petals² furled， leaved

    by the trees by the forest path， the yellow basket

    marking the center——

    wanted to raise that rose

    petal¹ skin to my gray face， barely to brush

    that warmth with my cold nose， but I knew she'd cry

    for mercy， help， the mother who'd filled the basket

    that morning， Wolf， she'd cry， Wolf， and she'd

    be right， why should she try to see beyond

    the fur， the teeth， the cartoon tongue wet

    with anticipation³？

    And so I hid behind

    a tree as she passed on the path， then ran， as you know，

    to her grandmother's house， but not as they say， I knocked

    and when she answered I asked politely for her

    advice. And then， I swear， she offered me tea，

    her bonnet⁴， an extra gown， she gave me more

    than advice， she tucked me into a readied bed，

    she smoothed my rough fur， I felt light

    as a flower， myself， stamened and stemmed in her

    sweet sheets.

    Not ate her， you see， but rather became

    her， flannel⁵ chest for the red head， hood⁶

    that hid the pearl that when I touched it flushed

    and shone. What big eyes！ and she opened the cape⁷，

    tongue， mouth to her mouth， and opened everything，

    I crooned， crawling inside， wolf to flower，

    gray to rose， grandmother into child

    again， howl to whisper， dagger⁸ to cloak，

    my mother father animal arms， disarmed⁹

    by love， were all she ever dreamed of.

上一篇：The Goops 下一篇：The going. The letters. The staying.