[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_16/Torzs.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
In fairy tales, women seldom look
behind the unlocked doors, preferring to open onto secrets
which after all are women’s territory.
Folded away with the sheets, washed
out of the sheets, or left to stain. Bluebeard
had many rooms we never saw, such as the dining room.
The servant’s quarters.
A cloud of dust!
Ah sister it is
but a flock of sheep.
From the highest window,
any slight disturbance of the land
may signify the hooved approach of men
intent on rescue. To reach a tower
you must first go up a flight
of stairs, and maybe we mistake the effort
for a promise: if we render ourselves
breathless, and sweat,
then naturally will come the cool-down.
As an answer. As a circlet. As a chamber
with the bodies of the girls who came
before. Remember dressing dolls?
We fit their slender arms
through the holes of their sleeves.
We cut off all their hair,
and when it didn’t start to grow again
we cried. They were not human. We made them
ugly in the image of ourselves.