The nursery window looked out on a view of groves
and rock-pitted hills, the moon a saucer of soured milk

adrift in the sky. The one they left in place of the child 
taken to wed the prince of their underground is called 

changeling— At first, no one noticed the sheen
had gone out of her locks, the blush of buds 

from her cheeks. Her piteous cries were understood
as colic. As she grew, though she learned to string 

letters together, do sums wthout writing. she couldn't
seem to shake a veil that followed her like a haunting. 

If the other is truly gone to whatever fate she married, 
all I wish is for the one who's here to unpin the shadow 

from her heel, open the wardrobe; select a garment 
stitched with fruit and flower and kinder light.

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