Rebecca Cook
Call Me Grim
Having found herself at the end of herself
she leaves the story for deeper woods,
a hole with her shape dressed in velvet,
hair in snood,
feet in beaded slippers.
She follows the margin over
the edge of the world.
Her blood a trail for birds
and little children to follow--
crumbled bread on stones.
She’s cutting paper babies from
abandoned pages.
I am a bright thorn.
I am a toadstool to sit on.
I am a footstool for fairies.
She broke open the deep magic
another book in another story she
waded through gathering white in her arms.
I am an open glove,
a sleeve unraveling against my wrist.
I see I am made of words.
