When a scented silk scarf wafts before you,
your eyes will snap open, only the dull whites
showing. You sneeze, with a liquid gurgle
at the end. Dust sifts out of your clothing,
and the reason for the sweet perfume
is suddenly apparent. Where are you now?
Why, wherever were you expecting to be,
lambkin? Don’t try to move just yet.
In fact, be still until I tell you otherwise.
When I am ready, I will send you out
to do my bidding, to harvest what I need.
You will gather roots, berries, thorns, banes,
and you will not wonder what is done
with them. Lazulie’s tisanes are famous,
oh yeah—and you the unliving proof. Now,
get me a bucket of water. Now take it back
to the well and pour it in. Get me another
bucket. Take it back again. All night
you will fetch and spill, fetch and spill.
Someday a handsome, still-young man
will catch a glimpse of you from the road
as you fall back under the shadow of trees
or disappear in the distance past the fringe
of hills. You will have changed and he
will be uncertain. Then I will send you
to keep watch while he sleeps, until
he sees you through his window one night
and becomes afraid to sleep. He would never
come to me (just as you would not have),
despite my arts, but when he sickens,
someone who loves him will come, asking me
for what they think he needs, and then …
Somewhere they are calling your name,
but I tell you there is no need to listen.
Someplace, they had been expecting you
to come home.