Yes, bits of it are torn
because we rescued it 
from a box of rain-drenched books
left orphaned on the pavement.
I wouldn’t have bought 
this weird Red Riding Hood
with its holographic insets 
or chosen a version where it says 
the granny was gobbled up by the wolf, 
then cut out of his belly.
When I read it I have to substitute 
the wolf locked the granny in the wardrobe 
and instead of the Woodsman 
freeing the granny in a slither
of entrails I say: They put the wolf in jail!,
because I can tell my kid is afraid of
and compelled by the wolf 
like all kids are compelled by, afraid of 
the blade the needle the bottle with its skull and cross bones the thundering wheels of trucks the electric fence you might just grab –  
and I want to be my daughter’s safety in that place
not some blindfolded Justice juggling kitchen implements –  
so yes, our storybook is 
torn and full of gaudy foil, 
but Jesus, look around you,
at the boiling sky and dog shit pavements,
at the glimmer bleeding from the light’s edge.