Sometimes you cannot see it. Underneath my blouse are red and purple feathers. Ghosts in the grass say nothing. Could not hear the truer me coming from behind. People smile because they think I am a woman but really I am a monster. In between fingers I take the heart of the bread. There were noses, eyes, cities and palms to make. Our hearts lettered. We sent signals to the sky or down into the ground. Occasionally there will be fire. Every book says so. It is easy to look into the flame and see something promising. Listen and you can hear the space around a woman. It goes black and then white like the song of a mermaid. It goes quiet then loud like a scream. A map made of words. This particular myth begins with trees. Veins lined with them. Below the garden you are not alone. I have not disappeared.