Betrothed
to a King
I knew
what I was getting into,
wedding
a king who'd been
betrothed
before.
Princesses
vanish all the time:
turned
into frogs and cats,
made
housekeeper to a witch,
buried
in holes.
These
things happen.
Our
alliance was a good one,
my
family noble enough,
the
king kind enough,
the
staff pleasant,
the
mother-in-law overjoyed.
The
courtship slipped by
like a
sunset
and the
rumors were mercifully few
(the
first bride could charm birds from the sky,
toss
flour onto coals to make exquisite bread,
dance
like a gazelle, and of course she was beautiful).
I
allowed myself one small rebellion
against
tradition.
I
thought I was safe.
Lulled
into security by her absence,
by his
slow, small smiles,
by
fleeting touches that became lingering,
I
ignored my upbringing.
(A
marriage is just an alliance;
A good
wife's first duty is to bear children,
And
next, to be a virgin on her wedding night,
And
finally, to love her husband.)
The
night before the wedding,
I crept
unseen to his chambers.
I
spelled one guard to sleep;
What
good is magic if unused?
Hesitant
at first, his caresses transformed
From
dove kisses to dog bites,
Firm
and insistent, binding us together.
I did
not regret it til the next day,
Sitting
at the wedding feast,
Sharing
wine and sly glances.
Suddenly
a girl—
Radiantly
beautiful, haggardly thin.
Her
smile a knife to my heart,
His
eyes a blow to my soul.
My mind
stuttered on a spell
(Iron
shoes? Cavern exile?
Transform
into a bird,
Chain
to a sea monster?)
And too
late I heard his voice
Ringing
out into the stunned silence.
“If I
lost the key to a treasure coffer
And had
a new one made,
But the
old key was found,
Which
should I keep?”
A key.
I was a
key.
An
object to be used
And
discarded.
My fingers,
Wrapped
around my wedding wine,
Stiffened
and tensed,
Clutched
as if for her throat.
There
was little left for me to do
But
disappear, my wedding dress
Clinging
like a shroud
With my
cheeks afire:
Anger,
betrayal, shame.
No
longer a token for my family,
Shunted
from the traffic in women
To…what?
Where? Who would I become?
Would I
wear these wintry colors
To hide
a trampled heart,
The hot
flush of shame, forever?
This
much I know:
There
is no safety in life.
Never
count on a princess to stay gone.
And I
am no key.
The
Ogre’s Heart
I know
the secret
of the
ogre’s heart
within
the casket.
I am
throwing my clothes
into
garbage bags
and
bundling those into my car
and
wiping snow from my hair
while
the white silent world
vibrates
with the sound of my breathing.
I will
get through this.
There
is a trunk within my storage unit
with a
hollow ottoman inside it
and
wrapped in a blanket is
our
wedding album.
Inside
the album
Inside
the blanket
Inside
the ottoman
Inside
the trunk
Is…not
my heart, but a memory of it:
Sun-filled
laughter,
Gleaming
eyes and smiles,
Transparent
images,
Ghost-selves
of a dead past.
In the
fairy tales,
the
princess held captive by the ogre
betrays
him with the location of his heart,
given
to the hero on a bed of promises:
eager,
yielding, spreading thighs/lips/heart.
Outside
the storage unit
frost
cakes on my face
and,
shivering, I unload the last of it,
the
last vestiges of this life
failed,
this union unfulfilled.
Frozen,
I see the remainder stored:
tax
forms, cutlery, the fucking welcome mat.
Mechanically,
I move it all inside.
The
ogre is not the villain.
The
ogre stored his heart in a casket
to
protect it, not from some dumb ass hero
but
from the unfiltered humanity around him,
that
could so effortlessly reduce him to tears.
The
ogre has important ogre shit to do.
The
ogre has to get on with his day.
The
ogre cannot afford to be distracted
by
weeping princesses, sniveling heroes, and the like.
If I
had tears to weep,
they
would freeze on my cheeks.
But no
heart means no tears.
Blank-faced,
I’m only aware
of an
uncomfortable fullness when I blink.
The
last of it is stored.
I’m
leaving my home.
The
secret of the ogre’s heart
(in a
casket, inside a duck, inside a swan)
Glitters
within my eyes.
Nobody
will unlock it or find it
Until
I’m ready to stop my mad pacing,
Panting,
my frenetic plotting to escape
The
prison that looks like a house.
The
stories have the princess running away.
Maybe
she was, but I know the truth:
The
ogre had run away long
before
the princess ever showed up.
The
ogre is still running.
It’s
easier to run when you are heartless.
Someday,
if some stupid hero doesn’t destroy it first,
The
ogre will tenderly lift his heart from the casket
And
reinsert it into his chest:
Take a
deep, shuddering breath
And
begin to live once more.
I lock
my storage unit.
I drive
away.
My
heart is not inside,
It is
nowhere to be found.
I
gracefully extricate myself
(to
whispers of, “how does she hold it together?”)
And I
survive mostly-whole.
And the
only reason I smile
Is
because of my heart,
Locked
safely away,
Shut
away so that I can do the unthinkable
And
endure the extremes of human emotion
And
maybe someday adopt a princess
Who
will show me why storing hearts in places
Is not
the best way to live forever.
Given
or Sold or Stolen Away
Wife of
white bear,
Captive
of beast,
Wyvern’s
bride,
Monster’s
feast:
Here is
a list of women,
Girls
like you and me
Promised
to exotic husbands
Never
to be set free.
Fathers
who gamble
And brothers
who lie
Trolls
who cheat
And
mothers who die:
Who to
blame
When
we’re stolen away,
Who to
curse
On our
wedding day?
Give me
just one story
And
make it true,
Of a
girl who escaped,
Who
grew wings and flew.
Or
better yet, was never sold,
Never
given, never stolen away,
Who was
her own story’s hero,
Not a
man’s stowaway.
Coat of
a Thousand Furs
Animals
are dumb
(I mean
that in a good way, I promise).
I know
because I was a princess.
My
people gave me
Bangles
& baubles
Until
my mouth was stuffed up
With
doubt and I could not speak:
Is this
a true friend’s gift,
A
bribe, a torrent of flattery?
Consolation
for my mother’s death?
Something
to blackmail me with
If it’s
later found in a man’s bedchamber?
My
father gave me dresses:
As gold
as the sun,
As
silver as the moon,
As
sparkling as the stars.
Beauty
to mask a monster’s proposal.
You
know the story.
My
animals gave themselves,
No
more, no less.
Wordless
furry bodies pressed
Against
me for comfort,
Gaping
mouths asking for the same
Assurances
of food, warmth, grooming.
By the
time my father
Asked
for my hand in marriage
My
words had almost all fled,
Gone to
ground,
Burrowed
deep inside,
Hibernating.
I felt
bad asking for the coat.
Physically
bad – my voice had rusted
From
lack of use, scraping out of my throat
As
though my tongue had grown bristly,
In
advance of the rest of me.
I kept
my favorites alive, of course.
I asked
for a coat of furs from the forest animals,
But
still felt sick knowing what was coming,
My
pets, my mute friends, my comfort.
Animals
are dumb: their silence guaranteed.
The
perfect conspirators.
Quiet
lumps in my bed,
Like my
corpse of a tongue
Immobile
in my mouth.
Assemble
enough small forest animals,
Household
pets, more or less domesticated,
And
you’ll have enough blood
To make
it look like a human bled out.
Add in
a few pig bones,
Tear
out tufts of your own hair,
Create
a trail of bloody wolf prints
Leading
away from the scene.
Of
course I bled too.
They
fought back, my only friends,
For
what creature does not cling to life?
More
than anything, though,
Animals
are dumb because their faith is
A whole
thing, not unbreakable
(We’ve
all seen dogs mistreated,
Cats
skittish around water because their
Kittens
or littermates were drowned)
But
rather, inviolable.
It’s
there or it’s not,
The
same way a forest is.
Now I
am mute beast,
Escaped
burly bride,
And I
too shall be a dumb animal
Until
my heart restores
And my
tongue sheds its skin
And
even then, I may keep this coat
Instead
of shucking it
On the
chance of a new human life.
I know
all too well what humans are capable of.
The Old
King Dreams
The old
king dreams:
the
girl, his girl, giggling
as she
disappears around a corner,
feet
pattering, tail dragging behind her.
He runs
after her, trying to catch a glimpse,
knowing
what he will see:
the
blond locks from his wife,
her
sparkling eyes too,
but a
face that is his, his, his.
And a
lithe body draped in a skin,
the
pelt of his favorite donkey,
the one
he’d killed for her brideprice
(with every
bray a gold piece would fall from its lips:
no
more, but what was wealth without happiness?).
He
turns the corner,
hoping
to catch up and coddle his girl
and
hold her tight and next—
But
what rears up on hind legs is
no
longer a human in an animal skin
or the
size of a human, but larger,
and it
sets upon him, ripping out
chunks
of his flesh with knifelike hooves
and
braying, blood-flecked teeth.
The old
king screams until he wakes up.
He
falls asleep again and dreams the same dream.
Bit gory, but it gets the job done,
says
the fairy godmother,
after
she and the girl visit the king’s dreams.
The
former princess nods.
You could undo it, you know, if you
find a new home,
get betrothed, invite him, and cook
him a meal
made entirely without salt.
Otherwise, he’ll eventually die or
go even madder
from lack of sleep, not sure which
will happen first.
The
girl shrugs, drawing the skin cloak around her
thin
frame even tighter, clutching her bag
with
dresses to secure her future.
I never really could cook, she says.
All right, replies the godmother.
Off we go then.
Jeana
Jorgensen earned her PhD in folklore from Indiana University. She researches
gender and sexuality in fairy tales and fairy-tale retellings, folk narrative
more generally, body art, dance, and feminist/queer theory. Her poetry has
appeared at Strange Horizons, Nevermore Journal, Liminality, Glittership,
and other venues.
