An Open Letter from Gretel to Ursula
We sang in underwater castles while hurricanes raged
ships. We slithered through
wreckage in pursuit of broken promises.
Let me tell you about voice and glory:
soundless bubbles, puppy love, unconvincing
and foolish, leveraged by girls
against their own power. No, home is not your wish.
More like women written without claws for hearts,
freedom from hunger, a life
unobstructed by trees. Your wish:
a father who would not suffer
your abandonment; bread crumbs
made from hand grenades. Yours is the tortured
wish of a prisoner, eager to rusty blade her own arms
if it means she can save her body. Child,
that urge is only shadow. It is not real.
Contour your shoulder blades, escape
your bars, and keep your fire
burning. We have lost so much already:
drowned it or left it in vast forests,
like the last of our best memories,
which now only come to us as dreams. Remember,
lost is just another word for begin.
We are already everything. Let us sing.
Hydria
after Hieu Minh Nguyen
At least a small part of me is still the myth
I use to nightmare myself into loneliness.
Kiln-fired hydria, beasts of burden
dragged into its wet skin with sharp
precision. A man once offered me money
to let him feed me. He had fantasies
about where the food ended and his fingers
began, a prurient itch to accidentally
be chewed up and digested. How easy
it would have been to let my teeth slip
on the raging skin of his hand, provide the expected
laugh and lustrous gaze as I licked each digit
clean. Isn’t that what I always wanted?
To be naked and shelved and looked upon
with desire? Rotund
muse, an open, uncovered vessel,
reverent and delicate, even just for a moment.
