In no time she’s eaten everything and everything was a lot. I have a garden. I put things in jars. I stock up at Costco. When you’re feeding a giant, none of this is enough. I make the round of local grocery stores and buy a cartful every day. It adds up fast but what else am I going to spend my money on. I mean, I don’t have a lot of money but I also don’t really want anything if only because I have discovered that wanting things doesn’t help you get them.

those aren’t stars they’re decimal points

Fortunately I have a deep well and there’s a faucet in the barn and a five-gallon bucket, so her thirst is not a problem. In addition I suspect she forages at night — sometimes it looks as if the neighboring cornfields have been trampled; sometimes my neighbors complain of missing pigs or cows. Well. Farming is a treacherous business. I make no accusations, just say, “Try to be careful,” in a small voice.

all day rain
every puddle I step in

She nods and I stare in fascination at her head the size of a tower clock. It’s rude to stare, yes, but does she know that? Sometimes we stare at each other for a long time. That seems only natural. We have to figure out somehow what we are. Have you ever looked at something so long it starts looking like an alien artifact? It’s like saying a word so often that you forget what it means or whether it’s even in your language. I’m keeping her alive. What, exactly, am I keeping?

half-eaten moon
the caterpillar
begins to spin


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