Rapunzel's Daughter

 

 

 

The daughter of Rapunzel learned to sing

sweetly from her mother, to enrich her sound

with radishes, rose hips and salad greens. For years, 

she played the harp and remained a happy child

until suddenly turning silent.

 

On the day she lost her voice,

the crone’s raven landed near the stream

clutching a dragonfly in his beak.

 

Then he flew away with the insect

shimmering like a crystal key,

leaving the blonde girl to ripple in water

and trade her bright self for a sullen shadow.

.

Now she twirls limp tendrils of hair

and speaks one word answers,

same tone, same size and all stored up

as if they were lentils inside a glass tower.

 

I remember when her tongue

was a leaf of ruby lettuce

seasoned with awe,  and the garden

waited to serve her like a muse

draped  in sheer light and flowering plants.

 

But the day she found that darkened mood,

its winged echo fell behind her ribs

and was left flapping sorrow

against a small trellis of bone.

 

At night it grew deeper --and still does

as she turns in her sleep

feeling the tense grip of bird and moon.