“She vanished to the wood,” they said. “Forget
her—that strange and sickly child.” A child?
Your face was no more childish than mine. And yet
not a proper prospect. The Queen defiled
my kingdom’s sight who saw you as a waif
with reddest lips and whitish skin, no queen
for future king. And so I wished you a safe
escape and returned alone. The woods, once green,
had turned grey without you. Then, by a silver lake
I found you midst the summer ferns, encased
in glass and gold, asleep in Nature’s wake.
Serene you slept with starry ribbons laced
around your night-sky hair. Could I end this?
I have no magic potion, just a kiss.

 

Rebeca Parrott is a poet living in Virginia. She has upcoming work appearing in Applause Literary Journal and Peacock Journal.

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