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If you knew about the wolves,
you'd never love me
as your own daughter.
Here I sit in her place,
Marjatta's place.

I eat the rye porridge
you've cooked for me, Mother,
with the wooden spoon
you've carved for me, Father,
as I take up the space
of your dead daughter.

I watched from the woods,
hungry and lonely.
Father tilled the potato field,
Mother spun yarn
from the sheep's coats.
Daughter tended those sheep
in a forest clearing,
returning in the evenings
to the house where light greeted her
at the doorway, and inside
was love and safety.

I watched the family.

I wanted.

When you found Marjatta, throat torn,
your keening chilled my heart.
But I knew you'd grow to love me
when I came to take her place.
After the burial,
I came lost to your door,
a child in the dark.

Mother, Father,
you took me in.

Just like I wanted.



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