Unnatural Womb

When the woodcutter came,
I lay sleeping
flushed in the moist sponge belly,
warm and safe
until the axe sliced, sharp,
barely missing my right arm,
and the wolf split to bits ––
blood under the fur,
and not even wolf anymore.
I tumbled out ––
no cradle to rock me,
raw air pulling my skin lumpy:
goose-like and cold.
The woodcutter carried me
home with him, laid me in bed,
and treated me
princess-like, always.
But I, lonely refugee,
void of comfort,
never did sleep again.