Helping a Hatchling
Did you accept that idea that two white doves
carried multiple gowns to a weeping maiden?
Poppycock. Doves coo. Others did the work:
sparrows, ravens, cranes, and finches, among others.
You know the part about the cruel stepfamily and the constant cleaning.
Storytellers focus on the romance, the dancing, and the marriage.
An author took creative liberties and erased us helping a hatchling.
The maiden was kind, offering crumbs, even spare suet when she had some.
We left her feathers to offer her comfort when her mother died.
The down from our bellies filled her meager pillow by the hearth for years.
Seeing her suffer, we plotted, and we, sparrows, possess a bit of magic after all.
We called the birds of the region together, and everyone donated.
Each crane gave a feather for the skirt of the “silver” gown.
Finches provided three each for the “gold” one. Ducks and storks gave
feathers for the bodices, and the wrens sang as they pulled at their tails.
Carefully placed shiny stones from the crows and ravens finished each dress.
The girl wept in amazement and relief as twenty sparrows carried our presents.
The prince did not notice her ordinary shoes and walked her home the first night.
Now, each royal property puts out seeds, bread, and suet when the snow falls.
The happy ending for a beloved chick has led to full bellies for us all.
Bluebeard Wins Again
Frantic finding
Frantic finding
Oh, God! Help my lost soul.
I have married a demon.
The bodies, so many bodies are in the room.
I stepped in the blood. I fell.
Frantic scrubbing
Frantic scrubbing
I looked up his past before the wedding but found only marriage records and death dates.
His first wife was a wealthy widow.
The last survivor when a plague took out the town.
Everyone was related to someone, and she was the only beneficiary left.
Frantic breathing
Frantic breathing
I must think. The blood won’t come off.
I think the servants know. They must.
The second bride was known for her long bright copper curls.
He mounted her head upside down and let the hair stream down the wall along with the blood.
Frantic vomiting
Frantic vomiting
His third wife was a recluse.
She preferred playing piano to people.
He reshaped her hands into a music stand.
I must run.
Frantic pacing
Frantic pacing
I have no relatives.
The orphanage told me it was him or the workhouse since I am seventeen.
No one knows I’m here.
I must not cry.
Frantic planning
Frantic planning
I will grab some gold.
I will take one of the horses.
I can make the town if I ride all night.
He is not due back until Wednesday.
Slow footfalls
Slow footfalls
The door clicks open.
“My Lord?”
Frantic struggling
Silence
I Call Myself Selene
Many know a piece of my face and a part of my lore, but my story waxes
and wanes, dependent on others and free of them too. I am a simple moon
goddess, one among the Greek pantheon, not as important as Gaia or as mean
as Hera, so I am mostly overlooked. I am a small footnote for enthusiastic scholars.
Some folks claim I drive a chariot, pulling the moon into position, shedding
silvery light. I can give Jupiter cover, aiding him in war or adding time to his trysts.
Others say my scars show the many strikes Typhon gave me in battle. My strength
controlled the tides, and I came out the victor. I take pride in my many craters.
Better though are my numerous stories: Men claim I bore 50 daughters with a man
I visited at night, not allowing him to awaken. Poets make our story tragic, suggesting
a lover asleep to avoid death’s grasp. I killed a satyr for his rash words, created a lion
for fun, and traded sex with Pan for wool. I made the cutest sweater after.
Since have I birthed seasons and ever change my form, writers always ask:
“Which story is true, oh Lady?” “All of them and none of them,” I ever reply. I am
celebrations and secrets. I see women’s dances, tears, and triumphs. I drink up
their tales and provide a faithful cycle. I show all how to flirt, evade, and transform.
On the darkest nights, I guard unseen. On my brightest sojourns, I dazzle and allure.
Few know my name now, but they love me nevertheless. I enjoy the gaze of mortals,
and I glow dimly enough to be looked on directly. I collect the sighs and the smiles.
They are my favors, and wrapped in their mantle, I will ever watch over humans well.
A Godmother Weeps
A frog prince lies face down in the foundation, killed by an abusive princess.
A beauty refuses to return to the castle and her beast gives into despair. She later realizes that the castle was her salvation too and follows him into the afterlife.
A prince won’t pass beneath the briars meaning a sleeping maiden never wakes up.
A huntsman refuses to listen, so a queen eats a maiden’s heart with a white sauce and asparagus.
We only celebrate the weddings and christenings.
We do not discuss the failures,
the wails of the godmothers when the hero dies.
Her rage when a heroine suffers.
Her screams when the temporary stillness of ever after collapses.
The pain of a fairy godmother does not lead to happy endings.
It echoes where the untold stories live.
Tricks Until We Finally Understand the Lesson
In South Africa, you stole our rebirth.
You angered Moon but gained your face.
Did you know we would need more rebirths than one?
You foretold the future in Celtic lands.
The path you ran down was a slice of possibility.
Did you know we would need your ability to change directions?
Japan tells of your sacrifice.
A god brought you to the moon for your kindness.
Did you know we would need your image in the night sky?
In the American West, they tell of your tricks.
You plot, you steal, and you twist.
Did you know we would need your example?
Every spring, my people watch you and your friends fight.
Your steady cleverness overcome by desire.
Did you know that we would need comparison to remember our rationality?
Oh Rabbit, do you trick us or teach us?
Do you bring the spring as an apology for the heaven you stole?
You know we need to sneak, to worry, to fear, to sacrifice, and to dance.
Why do we seek a god who looks like us?
You follow us and provide for us.
You warn us and teach us.
We presume we know our way in the world,
but we can devastate as much as you have.
What if you regularly show us the way from the underworld to the heavens?
Darting and returning until we understand your purpose at last.
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