Everyone knows this story:
the girl, the woods, the wolf.
The woods are dark,
and the wolf is sly and hungry.
The girl—the girl walks
with a basket on her arm.
The story never looks in the basket.
In the red velvet folds
are the talismans of
her bright forever victory:
One is arrow of her sight.
One is her uncontainable heart.
So the woods, they will burn.
The wolfʻs blood, itʻs sweet.
When the girl walks home again
every path is her path.
Every eye averts from
her casually swinging hand,
its blade of hungry light.
