Editor’s note: There is real magic, and cunning, in this poem. The magic and cunning of the fairy godmother—who is absent but hovering—but also the magic of the narrator’s thoughts. This poem reads like a spell or incantation. I knew I had to buy it as soon as I read it. (Kate)
Two little see-through heels tap
a nervous ditty on my echoing
innards—torn from my vine-friends
and homely earth, scraped
clean of gold filigree strings
and seeds, my peachy flesh
slickly cool and hollowed-out.
I just want to know
where are my seeds?
I’ve weathered frost
and hard-bitten midnight
under just such a moon.
It reflects my plump
orange glory, old friends
since I first cracked
the seedcase and burial chamber—
quite the transformation.
And now, this! Gaudy glitter
and in motion. Sure, this is great
but a dry and flighty business:
waiting by a wide staircase of stone
for a slight girl in fairy splendor
the secret in the clock
the mad dash, the magic hour
a thrown shoe
the drama, the tears
(heavens, even a horse can throw a shoe).
I just want to know
where are my seeds?
I’ll show them some real magic.
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Bio: Sharmon writes from the deep south. Her poetry is featured in Rhonda Parrish's anthology, "Dark Waters," Sept. 14, 2021. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Forge, Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Love Letters to Poe, microverses.net: Octavos, The Society of Classical Poets Journal IX, Backchannels, and elsewhere.
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Image from Pixabay.
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