I. Princess In The Tower
You stand in the wings again, squinting.
It is not stage-light brilliance that blinds you
but the flash of her teeth,
and her quick glance your way as she flickers
across a wooden floor.
Here, in the wings, you could
open your mouth, you could open your arms,
you could open everything that is locked
behind your ribs and fidgeting
inside your stomach and poised
across your knuckles but
the one thing you cannot open
Autumn in the bogs,
wet feathered reeds
bruised and yellow beneath
cold stumbling fog.
“Ho! Wanderer!”
spoke the king.
“I know what you need.
Step here, fear not—
the surface
will hold.
“Come, my daughter:
You are mine. Make no
mistake. Come,
we will dine
on jeweled snakes
and frogs
of gold.”
the curtain like a guillotine must drop
mercilessly to the wooden floor,
the curtain that walls you off
from your dreaming,
the curtain bending against
the sun at your bedroom window.
II. Lament
Lo-Ruhamah, Lo-Ammi:
Lama, lama sabachthani?
The girls in the dressing room sit side-by-side,
the last two left after midnight fled the blitzkrieg
of flurried kisses and rose trophies,
and the whitewashed cinder-block walls
let out a last sigh into the stillness.
Sophie closes her eyes, holds out her hand,
drops her pearl earrings, feels Madalena reach over,
smiles, looks at herself in the streaked mirror
ringed with harsh white lights, realizes
she’s alone, cannot find the earrings again,
spends the rest of the night
staring at her fingers.
III. Birth Of The Betrothed
That lagoon and its lavender houses at dusk,
soft gold light mirrored over the shoreline. We are
beyond it almost before we realize—probably
Tatiana is driving too fast—so you and I slip back later
to dangle our ankles in the water.
Who are you? I ask. Three years ago
you were the kindred soul I never thought I’d lose,
but who have you become?
Are you my brother? My father?
Answer me!
Hoshea the king of clean city streets
did not hesitate, splashed straight down into mud and
had his Oxfords swallowed off his feet;
the grass stank from its own rotting and
stuck to his cheeks, and he just kept going.
They say he climbed back out the other side
days later, holding a baby girl,
his tailored outfit good as new
and not a whiff of the swamp on him.
“A baby girl?”
Maybe his wife, actually.
“Or his wife! Which is it?”
Look, if I had all the details I wouldn’t be telling
this story, would I?
IV. You Follow Me
if you saw him
The ocean’s pulse is endless here, Poseidon’s bitter wrath
relentless, thrashing at the stubborn sand—and I,
transfixed between—
standing there, holding out his arms
Foolish daughter, who stole you from me?
Who gave you legs and set you on the land?
standing there to welcome you to shore
You who were brought forth in iniquity,
your skin is new, soft, not meant
for stones and grass that cut like knives.
Now the saltwater at your ankles—ha!
I see it stings. I see you shrink from me.
you would wade
you would wade
You will not pass through unharmed. No daughter of mine
not only through a sea of wrongs,
but through hell itself
Who are you? I do not know you. No daughter of mine
if you saw him
you would wade
Out on Tiberias we threw our nets
into dark waves, which crested with a whisper,
splashed cold starlight on our hands, and broke
the image of the moon cast on the sea.
You stand in the wings again, squinting.
It is not stage-light brilliance that blinds you
but the flash of her teeth,
and her quick glance your way as she flickers
across a wooden floor.
Here, in the wings, you could
open your mouth, you could open your arms,
you could open everything that is locked
behind your ribs and fidgeting
inside your stomach and poised
across your knuckles but
the one thing you cannot open
Autumn in the bogs,
wet feathered reeds
bruised and yellow beneath
cold stumbling fog.
“Ho! Wanderer!”
spoke the king.
“I know what you need.
Step here, fear not—
the surface
will hold.
“Come, my daughter:
You are mine. Make no
mistake. Come,
we will dine
on jeweled snakes
and frogs
of gold.”
the curtain like a guillotine must drop
mercilessly to the wooden floor,
the curtain that walls you off
from your dreaming,
the curtain bending against
the sun at your bedroom window.
II. Lament
Lo-Ruhamah, Lo-Ammi:
Lama, lama sabachthani?
The girls in the dressing room sit side-by-side,
the last two left after midnight fled the blitzkrieg
of flurried kisses and rose trophies,
and the whitewashed cinder-block walls
let out a last sigh into the stillness.
Sophie closes her eyes, holds out her hand,
drops her pearl earrings, feels Madalena reach over,
smiles, looks at herself in the streaked mirror
ringed with harsh white lights, realizes
she’s alone, cannot find the earrings again,
spends the rest of the night
staring at her fingers.
III. Birth Of The Betrothed
That lagoon and its lavender houses at dusk,
soft gold light mirrored over the shoreline. We are
beyond it almost before we realize—probably
Tatiana is driving too fast—so you and I slip back later
to dangle our ankles in the water.
Who are you? I ask. Three years ago
you were the kindred soul I never thought I’d lose,
but who have you become?
Are you my brother? My father?
Answer me!
Hoshea the king of clean city streets
did not hesitate, splashed straight down into mud and
had his Oxfords swallowed off his feet;
the grass stank from its own rotting and
stuck to his cheeks, and he just kept going.
They say he climbed back out the other side
days later, holding a baby girl,
his tailored outfit good as new
and not a whiff of the swamp on him.
“A baby girl?”
Maybe his wife, actually.
“Or his wife! Which is it?”
Look, if I had all the details I wouldn’t be telling
this story, would I?
IV. You Follow Me
if you saw him
The ocean’s pulse is endless here, Poseidon’s bitter wrath
relentless, thrashing at the stubborn sand—and I,
transfixed between—
standing there, holding out his arms
Foolish daughter, who stole you from me?
Who gave you legs and set you on the land?
standing there to welcome you to shore
You who were brought forth in iniquity,
your skin is new, soft, not meant
for stones and grass that cut like knives.
Now the saltwater at your ankles—ha!
I see it stings. I see you shrink from me.
you would wade
you would wade
You will not pass through unharmed. No daughter of mine
not only through a sea of wrongs,
but through hell itself
Who are you? I do not know you. No daughter of mine
if you saw him
you would wade
Out on Tiberias we threw our nets
into dark waves, which crested with a whisper,
splashed cold starlight on our hands, and broke
the image of the moon cast on the sea.