The Robing of the Bride
I will not be the world’s bride.
I will not have their tongues on my pale skin
tracing the path of veins underneath –
they touch without touching,
they feel without feeling.
It only takes an unmasked voice to make them flee.
I would rather be the red bird of prey
and push away the handmaiden with the fashionable hair.
Then, I would snatch the silly lance
the green cormorant has pointing at my crotch.
He makes me laugh
with his pathetic lecherous grin
He must be thinking he’s frightening me.
I would kiss the crying monster
on the top of its head and say,
“Goodbye, my friend –
you were always free.”
They only called it ugly because
they were jealous of its completeness.
And you – I’m looking at you.
Do I make you uneasy
with my bloodied feathers?
Does my wrongness offend you?
Did you think I would cower?
For a second I thought so myself.
I’m still talking to you.
I’m waiting for your answer.
If it’s three times “no,”
then come in.
Anca Rotar is a Romanian-born writer of poetry and fiction. She was driven to writing by her love of stories and verse, as well as by an ever-increasing fascination with mysteries and the unknown. Her biggest complaint is that there are too many interesting things in the world and hardly enough time to discover them all.
The Ekphrastic Review
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