The beauty of one sister who loved them so she smuggled the woodlice into her pockets & then into the house, after a day’s work of digging in the yard, & after the older ones of us had fed her & washed, she carried them into the bed with her, to mother them, so that they would have two blankets & be warm, for this is what she knew of love, & the beloveds emerged one by one from their defenses, unfolding themselves across the bed’s white sheet like they did over 400 years ago, carried from that other moonlight, accidentally, or by children, into the ship’s dark hold, slowly adapting to the new rooms of cloths, then fields, & we, the elders to that sister, we, having seen strangers in our house before, we, being older, being more ugly & afraid, we began, then, to teach her the lessons of dirt & fear. Copyright © 2015 by Aracelis Girmay. Used with permission of the author. |
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