Hood

The shadow beneath the red hood
has quit my face. I need his white hiss of teeth
and pink tongue curling against his snout.
 
I tell him of the lamp-lit windows in the house,
and watch his black shoulders heave away
into the forest. He cuts the path
before me where the sky lies in puddles.
 
I lower the hood. I am curve, beak, braid.
Not a girl at all. Was there ever room
for childhood? The wind speaks around me;
the trees orchestrate. I lift the hood.
 
Desire culls me: a journey that will marry me
to his hollow until I am the whole hunger.

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