Lucy's legs bucked and pumped,
strained against the yellow dress
her father wove from silk with bits of bone
to press her ribs straight. He tightened a wool cap
to hold hair itching against her skull.

No boys sniffed around Lucy's door—
she chose her narrow room,
sealed her ruby seam with wax,
bolted the candle to her palm.

Fortunato saw her first,
bartering fowl in the public square.
She circled and hexed the vendor's cart.
Her eye, he noticed, pulsed pink,
livid with dust and the reek
of market air. He told her she was beautiful
as gosling down.

Lucy spat at Fortunato's feet.
Charmed, he followed her home,
scratched and whined
let me break your chicken's neck,
pluck and boil, sweep pinfeathers
from the kitchen floor.

Ever her father's girl,
Lucy cut out her eyes,
arranged them on a plate,
served them up to the boy's
stammered plea.