I Girl slept for a thousand years, cradled in an ocean of ghost horses, their legs and necks wrapping her like mothers would children. Sometimes the ghost-horse legs wrapped girl like rope, tying up her limbs, all wet with salt from the sea. Sometimes the ghost-horse necks spooned girl tight, only to uncurl once again, flinging her still- sleeping body into the next wave of mane, of tail. Sometimes the ghost horses ached when they let girl go. Sometimes the ghost horses could not wait to get her gone. II There was a time when momma cried near the apple tree, salting fallen fruit to eat later. When later came and momma ate, baby ate, too. Baby kicked and ate and understood life would not be as big as a belly or as small as a hand, pressing against momma’s skin-globe and saying, “We love you, baby.” Baby knew the way these hands held other hands, cracked in dry weather, prayed when alone. Baby knew about love, how to sing it, sing it loud. Baby knew love was as fleeting as the salt slipped into what would soon be a navel, that the salt was always stronger than the flesh of a beautiful thing, sweet and red only for a moment.