You would wrap yards of silk around
your Venus de Willendorf form,
and wear your Rhiannon-long
swish of auburn like a cloak,
shielding your shoulders
from spears and arrows.
I was the runt of the litter,
shying away from the diamond
boom of your laughter,
and I ran, tumbled
over moss beneath
the weeping willow tree
and climbed higher –
circling your head,
refusing to come down.
Years passed, I landed on my feet –
a scarred tigress, sweat brining
my hair, a flash of broken teeth
and my claws snatching the caramel
song from your throat.
