Locks

Meghann Plunkett

You forgot the distance I walked from my village, in the thickness of winter, the last of our food lost to mold. You forgot how I cleaved frostbite from my husband one finger at a time, his jaw clenching, cracking his last good teeth. You forgot the way the wind sounded like a newborn and snapped at the empty parts of me. Each time you retell my story my hair becomes five shades lighter, flips into curls. You reshape me. A small birdsong replacing my voice. The grime from under my nails lifting into perfect quarter moons. You forgot about the poison berries I tucked into my boot in case I lost my way shouldering into the forest. You call me trespasser, but not for walking into the hollow of the mountain. Three brown sleeping mounds, stiff with hibernation. You forgot my hunger. My knife gutting their warmth into the air. Intestine spilling onto the dirt, steaming. The taste of marrow sucked from their jawbones. My teeth plum-dark as I peeled the hide from the smallest one. Strands pulled from my head, midnight-thin, lock by lock used as thread to sew the dead thing to me.