She thinks about swans, the woman reading,
and a tall girl with tangled hair
touching the fur of a silent bear
who will become a prince. Needing
a cup of tea, she rises, moves
to put the kettle on for steeping
good hot black to prevent her sleeping
before the clock strikes twelve. Hooves
of a golden horse keep pace across
her heartbeat as she stirs in milk,
remembering a gown of silk
she wore one summer day. My loss
is nothing she repeats and then
she pours away the extra water,
waiting for her only daughter
who, hungry, might come home again.