When the children ask
What became of Father's eyes?
we tell them it was the brambles.
It gets easier with the telling.
At night, by the hearth, he knits
caps, blankets, stockings for their little feet
he weaves tales
each more elaborate than the last, each
further from the truth
his hands are nimble as his tongue
he used to kiss me, once
he used to tell me stories, too
our love, undying
my beauty, peerless
his kingdom, gold and sapphires
What did I know of men, then
of love, of beauty, of wealth?
I knew only you, sister
mother, lover, soft and simple
poor within our tower walls
How could I have known?
I was a child in your arms
and childhood is blind
but memory is sharp as thorns.
I see, at night, while the children sleep
when I lie with him, backs touching
only for the warmth
— he would have left me to die.
But I sold my hair, that cold, cold spring;
belly full of bastards, I stole
unformed radishes to survive
I slept on the hard earth
in the shadow of the spire
I cried my voice raw
Gothel! I was a fool! I was wrong!
Damn you and your virgin's pride.
Like a fledgling fallen from the nest
my scent erased by human hands
I cannot go home again.
Do you know, he gnashes his teeth?
On nights of the full moon, he weeps
and he calls your name.
How confident he was that night
in his borrowed finery,
a fistful of bellflowers
a mouthful of lies
how lean and perfect
striding, climbing, thinking me gone
thinking I'd leapt from the bluffs, perhaps
broken from shame
so arrogant and brutal
hunting at your window
thinking you just another woman
to seduce, to own.
I can still see
his face, under the moon
the stark white of awe
of rapture, suspended
at the sight of you
oh, Gothel
what I would give
to behold you again
to have seen, even
the horrible glory
of you, enraged
a loveliness to outshine
even the brightest of stars
my love, my dearest,
I would rather be blind
then stumble in this dark night.
But I watched, still as stone
as he screamed, as he rent
in madness, in humility
his eyes
as he tumbled from heaven
back to earth, to my feet
the shell of a man
mine to mend.
Your parting gift to me
I know this now: you let him live
two mortals bereft of Eden
what had we to do but begin again?
But do you know, Gothel
he weeps for that last vision
and I envy him.
When they ask now, he says
it was a witch, a monster
that thrust him from the tower
and thorns that took his sight.
He tells us it was
me he sought for
that his intentions were pure
and his injuries the reason
today we want for bread.
I do not contradict him.
Stories are food for the soul
but this is only dangerous
if the listener is well fed.
What did I know of hunger, then
Sister, Friend, my
love, my beauty, my wealth?
It is time that shows us
we do not see what we possess
until it is gone.