A story told this many times becomes the forest.No beginning, no end, no longer a narrative but the airwe breathe. For centuries, a woman with a namerises from her sleep—becomes a tree—rains back downagain into her rest. One myth for how poetry began:a man, reaching. Violence. Myth: Apollo finds the treeinside of a woman. Apollo translates fingers into leaves,hears a voice and calls it wind. I am not interested in Apollo.I am interested in the father-god who could not stopthe rape but could turn his daughter into a tree—                                    what kind of power is that, and how does it still river through                                    our world? Why does nobody ask these questions? I carry more                                    keys than I need. Walking home from the library late, I thread                                    silver teeth through my fist. I am not a tree, and I am asking.