Once there was a woman made of moonlight and sighs. She had lived as a child in the forest of winds, and learned strange languages of star, shadow, hedgehog, oak, even before human talk. It made her quiet, wise. She grew up to be a little sad, a little shy. The world beyond the forest was a hard place, full of noise, and every day it hurt her in a new way or an old bitter way. It broke her dream bones. It left her with scars like poems. She wanted to run home to the forest, but it had been bulldozed for a shopping mall. So she went tenderly through the suburbs and the city. Her feet sang against the concrete. Her heart flew frangible, wishful, ahead of her. She was softness in the daylight, sorrow in the dark.
No one knew it. For she weighed more than beautiful, and her teeth were crooked.