By Jeannine Hall Gailey
A golden-haired girl born
in a month of sacrifice,
poor little lamb
throws off her wool coat
and pulls out boots she stole
and rides off on a reindeer instead
and of course she can speak to roses—
isn’t that the point?
Eventually she ends up in a castle
but it’s not her home.
It’s a place to liberate,
to escape, to decimate.
The whole place collapses,
a series of chandeliers made
of glass and ice. Off she goes.
Blackberries and currants in her pockets.
Roses blooming in her footpaths.
Wouldn’t you rather be the girl
that casts her own spells?
Source: Poetry (April 2020)
Poet Bio
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