[Bloom upon the Mountain—stated—]

By my sidelong glance, by my hand’s
             linger—I told you my history, 
                         of rushing home before cock crow, 
                         of my dancing shoes worn through, 
                         my petticoat askew. 

Untied from 
             propriety, I shimmied
over rivers, 
             no fear of drowning— 

this is how a lost thing 
heaps fortune over her like leaves, 
eats her way out of a tower of cakes— 

my hair grew as long as needed, 
             or I cut it loose and spun a coat, 
under which I passed as a youth, 
new to the world and unstubbled, 
             the one who delighted the bored, 
                                                 amorous duke. 
It isn’t that I loved him, but
                                                 no one else presented. 

Sincere apologies for this wayward
                         tale, this hand that travels
                                     along your breeches. 
The shy of me is buried in a crystal box, 
             evidenced by this hole I carry 
dangling from my wrist.

Rebecca Hazelton 

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