You awoke one morning
with violets growing on your pale skin.
Satin blue and viridian were their complements,
and no one asked how possible it was

for one green pea, (not even brown or hardened with age)
to penetrate twenty mattresses
then twenty feather beds
and still leave marks so shaped

like the palm of a man's hand.

~

What has happened, princess?
They say you passed the queen's test,
with falling
colors

stripped nude before retiring,
were inspected for purity
and pallor
by him.

~

Tell me in your whisper low
in your leaf lullaby voice:
did he enter your chamber
like a fox in that dark,

roll you from that bed
to the floor many times?
I am only interested
that no one asked

why you were so unhappy
that morning:
where all concerned
ate pigeons at the table,

grease dripping from lips
pink birds bleeding,
then thrown back
to flames.

I imagine
you sat waiting
between diners
passing platters;

and no one listened
for the terror
in the poise of
your voice.

~

You came to his castle in poverty;
perhaps he knew that your father
was ruined in the potato famine,
or that your mother died

of plague
or that you were trapped
like a hatchling
on a lizards tongue

by his mother's
bold games
with impossible tests.
No, this would not be

the first time
this mother
protected
this son

with public
euphemisms,
a bruise pea, a lie.
She knew

your skin was so tender
it would always be:
available for darkening
unquestioned when maimed;

yes, it would become
her favorite son's
favorite alibi
forever.

Comments (1)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

mark said:

thoroughly enjoyed this, very visual. thanks

November 29, 2007 | url

Name

Email

Website

Comment

smaller | bigger

I have read and agree to the Terms of Usage.

Add Comment