The Little Woman is too big.
Her shoebox gets sawn in half.
The pill millipede she rides upon
gets its reins of red leather slashed
and its antennae kicked in.
Slogans appear, scratched into the dirt
beneath dog-roses in a font
only she can read.
She breaks off a wedge of beefsteak fungus
and thinks - drinks a keg of tansy-flavoured tea.
She whispers to the linnets and the hawfinches,
speaks instructions to the hawk-moths.
One night, when the moon is a white hook,
she snaps her fingers.
Her people strike.
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