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It is more profitable to raise geese than daughters.
– Chinese proverb

This is the tale of the woodsman’s daughter. Born with a box
    of ashes set beside the bed,
in case. Before the baby cried, he rolled her face into the cinders –
    held it. Weak from the bloom
of too-much-blood, the new mother tried to stop his hand. He dragged
    her out into the yard, flogged her 
with the usual branch. If it was magic in the wood, they never
    said, but she began to change:

her scar-ridged back, beneath his lashes, toughened to a rind; it split
    and crusted into bark. Her prone
knees dug in the sandy ground and rooted, questing for water,
    as her work-grained fingers lengthened
into twigs. The tree – a lychee – he continued to curse as if it
    were his wife – its useless, meagre
fruit. Meanwhile the girl survived. Feathered in a fluff of greyish ash,
    her face tucked in, a little gosling.

He called her Mei Ming: No Name. She never learned to speak. Her life
    was maimed by her father’s sorrow.
For grief is a powerful thing – even for objects never conceived.
    He should have dropped her down
the well. Then at least he could forget. Sometimes when he set
    to work, hefting up his axe
to watch the cleanness of its arc, she butted at his elbow – again,
    again – with her restive head,

till angry, he flapped her from him. But if these silent pleas had
    meaning, maybe neither knew.
The girl child’s only comfort came from nestling under the
    lychee tree. Its shifting branches
whistled her wordless lullabies: the lychees with their watchful eyes,
    the wild geese crossing overhead.
The fruit, the geese. They marked her seasons. She didn’t long to join
    the birds, if longing implies

a will beyond the blindest instinct. Then one mid-autumn, she craned
    her neck so far to mark the geese’s
wheeling through the clouded hills – it kept on stretching – till
    it tapered in a beak. Her pink toes
sprouted webs and claws; her helpless arms found strength
    in wings. The goose daughter
soared to join the arrowing skein: kin linked by a single aim
    and tide, she knew their heading

and their need. They spent that year or more in endless flight, but where –
    across what sparkling tundral wastes –
I’ve not heard tell. Some will say the fable ended there. But those
    who know the ways of wild geese
know too the obligation to return, to their first dwelling place. Let this
    suffice: late spring. A woodsman
snares a wild goose that spirals clean into his yard – almost like
    it knows. Gripping its sinewed neck

he presses it down into the block, cross-hewn from a lychee trunk.
    A single blow. Profit, loss.