Once, blinded by a twinkling night on Carolina sand
While comets fell and passion rose his seed was darkly sown.
Cunina bore the golden child she wrapped in silk and gingham
And fed her well with fairy tales and nectar from lobelia
But ardor dimmed and pledges died. They were as Hollow Men.
Branded by her secret’s singe and scarred by prickly pears
She hid her marks with crimson scarves
And dwelled in twilight worlds
Where truth was blurred and constant pain was dulled by her surrender
And memories merge with daydreams to weave imperfect cloth.
Her child still wears those twice worn rags
But with the help of Knockers
She mines the veins of twice told lies and layers of subterfuge
To find the truths she will retell to other women’s daughters.
 Cunina was a minor goddess of infants. She was responsible for guarding the cradle
 The Knockers live beneath the ground where they wear tiny versions of standard miner’s garb and commit random mischief, such as stealing miner’s unattended tools and food.