Author: Gabriella M. Belfiglio

     Her curse was our period of glory.

 

            Everything became so quiet—no galling chatter

 

of humans, no jarring barks      of dogs, not even the buzz of a fly.

 

Only the subtle hum of our parents—sky and earth,

 

stretching      our      verdant vines,            plush flowers,     and

 

                 prickly thorns

 

between      them            endlessly.

 

Oh! And our roses—petals soft as the feathers on a goose—thick as the bark

 

of the old oak,      to speak of their colors does nothing.

 

     How can one explain the shades of sunrise?  Not pink, not  orange

 

but a pool of both.            Fibers reflecting light,      whirling   a

 

                                                                           feral brilliance.

 

After the kingdom re-awakened,

we were once again tamed.  Cut back.

Torn apart.  Thorns carefully discarded.

Thousands of our precious

flowers scattered throughout

the courtyard for the princess’ wedding

day.  Trampled on.   Left to fade.      

It’s not so much that my bed was uncomfortable—

more that I was overtired from the storm and lonely

in this strange house, not to mention I was afraid

I might fall off the tower of mattresses under me.  

And as I lay awake I heard through the walls the queen

and king arguing—something about what vegetable

to serve at dinner.  When I finally fell asleep,

everything was in green.  Sets of round green eyes

staring at me, a string of emeralds circling the queen’s

thin neck. Even the drops of water from the faucet dripped

the color of grass into the large orbed pool of the sink.