Lavinia, Afterwards

What happened in the forest was not the worst

of it—hands cut off, tongue cut out—mute and

mutilated, silenced even to touch. Always another

way to speak—stick in the mouth. I cannot sing

but scribble sand. You still hear me, inadvertent

and alone, I am more than this form, scarred,

blood-bathed, shaking with pain. The body would

rather this than lies. As a child, I buried acorns

in the dirt, smoothing the ground to hide the damage

and darkness—my nursemaids over the walnut crib.

Without hands, I cannot squirrel to retrieve. Without

hands, I cannot caress the beards of unworthy men.

Oh cousin, you are wrong, wrong to think that had

he known me better, he would have loathed to hurt me

in mad rage. Why believe that one who could devise

a girl was murdered. Listen, I can tell you what will

save you—visualize Daphne morphing into laurel.

Grow branches so Philomel may perch upon you

and take over the music that pounds through every

living thing. Listen, listen: he has always been wrong;

every song of grief is still song.