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I was laughing when I died,

picturing the face some future prince

might make when, having hacked

through giant rosebush thorns

and climbed the haunted tower,

he sees the spindle broken and the bed

unmade. We ran out at the last,

my virgin blood still wet between my thighs.

Let the spurned witch-sister

and the so-called fairy godmothers

duke out what history is writ.

Poor planning lets fate devour

the happy story here-and-now.

Destiny wants purity and light

and most of all submission, so

the scullery maid fisted me to ecstasy.

The curse broke like the chiming of a clock.

Time to grow up, unconcerned

by princess pink and bridal white. My passion

saved my life: city, apothecary's shop,

both a husband and a wife,

and grandchildren, bored, about my deathbed–

I would not have waited for a single man,

no matter what his charms,

for what I made with my two hands.




Mary Alexandra Agner writes of dead women, telescopes, and secrets. Her poetry, stories, and nonfiction have appeared in The Cascadia Subduction ZoneShenandoah, and Sky & Telescope, respectively. She can be found online at http://www.pantoum.org.
Current Issue
5 Jun 2023

Jackson sat at Kay’s bedside, one of her hands laid atop his, palm to palm, fingertips against the soft inside of her wrist. His fingers measured her temperature and pulse, her blood pressure, and her blood oxygen levels. She was no weaker or stronger today than yesterday. He was unsurprised and uneasy. Her vitals were regular with sleep. She had been resting when he returned from the shore.
You do not mean this as slang.
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