As Andersen told it, the tale was not for young children, not even called ‘The Little’-just, ‘The Mermaid.’ It’s about love and grief, a myth of long… - Denise Levertov

When I am a woman — O, when I am
a woman,
my wells of salt brim and brim,
poems force the lock of my throat.

When I opened the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I’ll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.

I wanted
to know all the bones in your spine, all
the pores of your skin,
tendrils of body hair.
To let
all of my skin, my hands,
ankles, shoulders, breasts,
even my shadow,
be forever imprinted
with whatever of you
is forever unknown of me.