White trunks

were stark, suddenly, against the haze,

Roots wound up out of the ground

like corpses’ arms.

The leaves’ bright fire

hid giants, dwarves, lions;

Fishermen saw in the sand

the print of a six-fingered hand.

No French noble, no knight of the Round Table,

ever walked here.

No robber slept in these bushes,

no monk dug caves in these hills.

Once, one stormy night,

a woman with a cat’s head came out of this forest,

Wearing a silver crown,

but she moaned all night

And died at dawn

before a priest could save her soul.

Ah, but that was so long ago

that no one remembers,

That—that was in a land

your dreams won’t take you to.

And I invented all this, staring

at your braids, the coils of a flaming snake,

Your green eyes

like round Persian turquoise.

That forest—it might be your soul.

That forest—it might be my love—

Or maybe, when we die,

that forest is where we’ll go, together.