Teresa Sutton

River of Forgetfulness 2

River of Forgetfulness 2



At the river’s edge, I’m Gretel
heading back to the candy house
to change the story, to learn the truth
about inky nights and all that lives
inside them. Here, I smell
snow that hovers over the forgetting.
Cashmere snow that falls through
bare trees flaming the twigs
with relentless notes of pear, melon,
musk. The air here succumbs
to a new storm, quiet, sluggish,
a pillow not quite firm enough
to cradle my head. Here
are buckets of guilt and grief.
All of them are as clear as mother’s
amniotic fluid. I’ve come from
the afterness to unearth the witch’s
bones, to grind them, bake them
into bread, and grate them
into crumbs. I’m here to pack
the thunder of medicines
that arrive too late
into a pail and pour it
with all the other brimming vats
into the fraud of fairy tales
and the blackness of deep waters.