branta came that night. paddled right up beside her in a tree-trunk canoe, offering a name.
on windy days the sea-wives would be busy with the boats, endlessly working ropes and sails. the woman learned to be useful.
on the calmer days they would rest.
«mother doesn’t give a shit.»
the woman brushed the wet sand from her dress. the pair walked on in silence
the woman walked south
along the high cliff path
one day the woman awoke
i dreamed my name
i dreamed my mother
i dreamed i was a rotting log
the woman remembered
the swivel of shod hooves on the dusty road,
once there was a woman who lived alone