East of the Sun

I heard a woman say,

“I won’t let my daughter read

fairy tales,”

And other chimed in with,

What do they teach, really

Cinderella let herself

be abused, had to be

rescued.

Belle married a kidnapper

gave up her dreams

Sleeping Beauty slept through

her own story.

I sat on my hands,

bit my tongue to hold in the words

red as blood, white as bone, black as ink.

Have you ever sat down with Grimm,

Calvino, Moe, Lang, Perrault in your lap

and read a fairy tale?

Look at these girls, women,

spanning centuries

passed down over fires

fire-filled themselves.

With names or without,

they last, beautiful as the moon

inside and out.

Isn’t that what these stories teach?

For a moment, close your eyes

hold the book in your hands,

fat cracking leather

cloth binding worn away

paper spine bent double,

and listen to the stories.

Older than ink, but younger

barely, than imagination.

Listen to the stories of

Perina, braving three rivers

blood, bile, and brine

for the sake of her own name

and oath.

Cinderwretch, breaking the cycle

of cruelty and letting herself

love fierce and free

and be loved again.

Gerda, who , seeing a frozen heart

melts it with the heat

of her tears,

half frozen herself.

Beauty, her own antagonist

but true to her word

as friendship blooms

like little-linda roses.

The Lass, who holds her own destiny

in her hands like a candle dripping wax

and walks, head high

East of the sun.