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 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.
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July 2025
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