Caliban and Miranda
What you read was not true:
I did not approach her.
I hid. I crouched behind bushes
And watched her pray. I understood
Little. Her words were like sand.
I wanted to learn speech.
I wanted a name for touch.
She placed her hands in the sea,
Let the water slip through her fingers.
I had only this strange reflection.

The day she approached me from behind,
I turned and nearly groaned.
She asked me if I could speak. She closed
Her eyes and waved a hand in front 
Of my face, odd benediction,
Pity soft on her lips.

Each morning she taught me new words.
I learned the island and its senses.
The wind seemed to caress, not burn.
I named my heart.
The world seemed sweet
Now that birds had names
And flight seemed possible.

But then he came, rising over the sand mounds
And suddenly my body
Not my body.

I learned to name darkness.
Its permanent seed.
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