for the Doctors of Carterhaugh, Brittany Warman and Sara Cleto

 

I have danced in my day. I have danced.
red ribbons in my hair, at my throat.
spat my ring in his soup, pearl and gold.
stole a ring from his tower. it broke.
spat up toads. spat up roses.
bells, too. and horse blood: iron enough to shod me in.
and yes, in that tolling hour, I did dance.

gown of gallows nettle, I wove myself.
rough luster, green blister. shapeless. sleeveless.
oh, to bind me in my shape.
oh, to keep me in my skin.
oh, to rein my dirty pigeon wings in.
can’t let me fly away before my execution day.
nor all this tender kindling go to waste.

I have danced, make no mistake, in my time.
in scullery, in kennel. no lord looking by.
slept in cobweb, lead crystal. no lord to cry.
and if I died, if I died,
the mourning dove did suckle me
in her bower of thorn and honeysuckle
and I did rise.

found my path through the woods. no lord in sight.
bread crumbs in my left pocket. moonstones in my right.
met a doll with my face, one button eye.
one black-stitched mouth and a button eye.
felt a spider at each ankle, blue and crawling.
red thread at each heel, unspooling.

horse head, horse head, faithful friend.
now will you dance?
bearskin, bearskin, on my bare skin.
in your circle of fur, I will dance.
in the hides of the dead, which I shed, I will dance.

in mushroom and wildfire, as my hair turns gray.
as the last harp string burns
on the last golden day.
when ivory breastbone blackens to ash.
in splinters of shattered slipper-glass.
this, yes, is how I dance.

           
(Editors’ Note: “fowlskin” is read by Erika Ensign on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 56B.)

© 2024 C. S. E. Cooney