the truth lies in the middle, the
jam in the sandwich, the sweetness
spread amongst the pips that stick
in ones teeth, thicksmashed raspberries
the stones in her shoes, too, the
pebbles worn to pearls by her heels,
the round rock-teeth that Hansel
threw to glitter under the moon,
foiling his stepmother, that mad bitch,
calculating the slices left in the
loaf of bread, the number of breaths left
before she'd be boxed up--
this famine or the next--what difference,
really--except for that still surprise of
a breeze upon your neck, the relief of
quenching water when least expected
a dream of another found and lost
again (sleep-crumpled as the sun streams
in at the cracks) ebbing, ebbing as the tide
draws ever away
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