The Hundred Year-Old Girl
His metal vest sparkles and his leather shines
kneeling over the perfect woman, newly so,
gleaming with permission and puberty.
The halls of the castle, infested with thorns,
creates a susurration of whispers. The young woman
cocooned in unconsciousness, she begs
to be unwrapped, peeled open, flower metaphors et al..
The ability to bounce light is a kind of wanting,
the wanting to be kissed, opened. Why,
everyone should feel like a princess at least once,
to awaken, sought and chosen, from a hundred painless years.
The prince enters, weapon first, ready
to negotiate new terms of an old curse.
She is beautiful because she does not yet know
the suffering that is cardinal to beauty;
all she remembers is wandering the halls, beloved,
a silver hairbrush in one hand. Fifteen, the first penetration,
first blood, first prick, an old woman's trick. Outside,
his knights try to make a fire from the hedge of thorns
but the stuff won't burn. The man's lips are soft
but he is unshaven from travel, and it is his beard,
a thousand tiny thorns, that wakes her.
Briar Rose and her king, Briar Rose and her king,
a wedding that will cost vats of slave's sweat;
cost the meadows all their petals.
She will ride with him, among his men,
kneel for his parents, kneel for the crown,
she will kneel for her king, ready herself
with the help of six maidens for the next prick,
ready, this time, for the sting.