Accept who you are when
the lights cut out and the air is
biting cold, no flames to hold.
We are in the woods and begging
to build, five holes to fill
where the gold once was.
When all that her tongue can recall
is rust, the metal tang of blood in the air,
striped faces, hidden places.
A girl grown, never forgets her graces.
When she skins hares in winter,
she always keeps her pinky out.