the way some women became men,
then fled to the wilds,
never to return.
The threshold of manhood:
the blade’s sharp edge
parting the melon’s flesh,
its thick rind splitting open.
As the sweet juice ran red,
she turned from the village
and ran too.
Ran with the wolves. Ran through the woods.
Hands still sticky.
For each morning, a woman who ran
awakes with herself and drinks dew
from her hair, no matter where
she slept the night before.
And she was finally one of them.
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