Sometimes, instead of poem-shaped, words come together as pieces of stories we didn’t write yet. Usually what lands in my lap tastes like the beginning of a story, something that would make a meal, or at the very least, a hearty snack, if I followed its scent to the kitchen, where the rest of it is simmering on the stove. Here’s one now…
Whenever the queen moved, small bones crunched beneath her feet. Tiny dead things caught at the hem of her red velvet gown, then fell away. It was as if, even in death, they wished to skitter and scramble far from her.
Every fairy tale requires an evil queen. She must be lovely, and cold. Ice at every window of her castle.
Yet, who froze your father’s bones in that distant winter?
Who brought rains and drought to the farm fields outside the village?
It wasn’t me, whispered the queen.