By Jennifer Lynn Krohn
To say his queen was silent
is an exaggeration.
Silence is impossible:
the footstep,
the heartbeat,
the breath.
She simply didn’t speak
for seven years,
the click of needles accompanying her
everywhere—their metallic pulse cut
through branches and ferns
led the king and his hounds to her.
He returned, his trophy
not a boar or hind,
but a woman—
people whispered.
Some claimed,
It was just like that story—
a dozen variations
on a princess cursed,
her silence
the price paid to restore her brothers
to their human shapes.
Others accused her
of witchcraft.
Mystery in a woman may be attractive
at first; a husband can’t help but grow paranoid
sleeping next to a stranger.
The king decided that she was weaving
her spell as far back as the forest.
Why else marry a girl,
who ripped her hands
knitting nettle shirts,
but never uttered a word of complaint
or consent?
No advisor warned the king
that burning his wife was a bit much.
People brought bundles of wood
and waited for the queen
to finally utter some word
or at least scream.
No one watched the smoke
climb into the sky,
or saw the white wings
appear.
No one questioned why,
like vultures,
six swans circled
the bonfire.
They landed;
the ropes snapped;
the crowd held its breath
waiting for magic,
for her to cast
her knitting over the flock
and transform them into men,
for her to speak
and forgive the king,
for a happy ending.
She took the shirts
—the mob’s expectations—
and threw them all
on the flames.
Without a word, she stretched
her wings and soared away.
_________________
Jennifer Lynn Krohn was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico where she currently lives with her husband. She earned her MFA at the University of New Mexico. Jennifer has published work in The Saranac Review, Adobe Walls, RED OCHRE LiT, Prick of the Spindle and In the Garden of the Crow.
Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 1:49 am
Categories: Issue 5.4, Poetry
