Cerridwen the crone whispers in little winds, seeds
starlings between my teeth. Flowers grow under 
my tongue, herbs we all might need. She potions 
me to breathe beneath the mother-tree – break 
the bark & bleed the leaves. Cerridwen, she spoils 
me, wrapped in leather, child of her wet 
rock womb, tucked away from modern day. 
 
I am shadowed pretty in the shade, my place 
a cradle shock of knowing – cry the root, knot 
the crown. My mouth is muted by acid rain. 
 
My mind becomes dangerously right, dangerously
alive. She feeds me corn and rabbit and trout, lullabies 
me fairy tales to tame my tiptoe tendency to dance
away in moon air, follow the music & poetry out past protest
lines & pithy signs & and pussy hats. She cauldrons
me with steam and harvests her starlings to weave 
 
hope in my hair. We are all alone now, muddy with men deathing 
the world. Warriors war and winnow away the want, the lust for
knowing life outside of mother-tree. 

I cry for my sisters 
all these slick days 
dawn done

about the author

Heather Truett holds an MFA from the University of Memphis and is doing PhD work at FSU. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, was released from Macmillan in 2021. She has work in Hunger Mountain, Sweet Lit, Whale Road Review, and others. Heather serves as editor-in-chief for the Southeast Review. Find out more at www.heathertruett.com.