Excalibur

She pulls the stick, buried within

The shallow grave of mud that lines the boundary

Between the damp forest and her damp yard,

With two hands,

Hefting as the earth holds on

And clods cling to its softened bark.

Brushing the earthen entrails away.

Her fingers, nails congested with worm food,

Linger on the knots, smaller than the ones her mother brushes out of her hair.

Its shape is familiar,

Like the decoration her mother hangs on the wall next to the door,

Or the one she sees on Sundays,

Suspended in the smoke

That makes it hard to breathe.

But no, there’s no man glued to this piece of tree;

Flip it upside down, yes, short end now held

In her palm.

She tightens her grip on the hilt,

And the metal is slick with battle-won sweat.

She runs deeper into the forest, barefoot,

Hair gnarled like vines and littered with leaves,

Beyond the borderline.