Folktale #333

by Jaye Nasir

photo by Ricardo Lima on pexels

In the dark woods. In the dark
woods at night. It was
a dark and stormy night. There
was a girl. There she was, among
the willows. Among the open mouths
of the trillium flowers.
It was a girl, the woods. A dark
and stormy girl. This girl she was
a woods. The tallest tree: her mother.

To make an index of every folktale
defeats the purpose. The point
of a story is: you cannot catch it.

Take the animal bride: beneath
her fur? Skin! Beneath her skin?
(Please, not that question.)
If you catch her, kill her you can
wear her. The rope
of her hair. The teeth of her spine.
It’s not worse to be lost in the dark woods
than it is to be lost in the city
down fluorescent hallways
between bus lines
in rush hour traffic or one of those
repeating dreams
about your job. Blink

and the girl has turned
into a full grown animal. Her hair
unknots itself. Her wounds mend
and bleed, mend and glisten.
She eats the hunter,
the woodcutter,
the axe. And what of the wolf?

That is another story. That
is not this story. This story
is also that story. The point
of a story is: blood
gushing roaring wet teeth
and lullaby.

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