Callisto—

I try to remember what it sounds like to be

someone. I try to remember

whether our bodies will carry us any farther. I

try to remember if your father or my father

was the one to put us under. I try to

remember adoration, emancipation, what

a human looks like

from the inside.

​

Callisto—

bear-mother is not a name.

Neither is anything I have ever owned. Forgiveness

is not a path we have crossed yet; retribution

is not a path we will find. Tell me the names

of your children. Tell me the name of

their father. Tell me whether or not

you love them.

​

Callisto—

it hurts. It hurts, Callisto, and all I want

is to learn how to let it go. How closely

do fear and hatred stand

when they walk

together? Will it be long before I can look at them

and not wish someone dead? Not wish for blood

underneath my nails?

​

Callisto—

there must be something I can do. I say this,

knowing the falsehood of it, knowing that winter

has fallen and will never wake up. But maybe,

maybe if you gave me the names, drew me the faces,

I could find something. Someone. Maybe if you ran

your hands down my spine just so, just

as she did, I will recognize

her fingers. Maybe if you hold me

it will feel familiar. Maybe there is flesh under all this

fur.

​

Callisto—

you are the only woman who has ever

broken me in half.