It’s always the blacksmith who does these things,
as if metal and magic go together.
You learn to be quiet
and hear no evil--only the ping-ping bang
of metal on metal,
and the hiss of the boil in the water.
But when pale to-be queens
with ebony eyes
commission such objects with hatred,
you can’t help but hear
the history that’s spilled
through apple red lips with a whisper.
And you know that you’ll tell,
not today, but tomorrow…
how the fairest of all in the land
ordered the clogs
to be made for a dance
that would last ‘til the wearer was
dead.
Sarah Stasik writes from a crooked mountain in Virginia, where she lives with her husband and son. Visit her blog at http://www.letters-to-the-cosmos.blogspot.com/ to read some random thoughts and find out more about her writing.
