Country Belle

I am a sparkler, a twirling dandelion, each thin hair

plucked from my stem by a cool shudder in a sprawling

field of shamrocks, dancing to the clicking sound of heels

across cobblestone streets, the clamor of village gossip

a dissonant note in the home-song played to the tune

of crackling bread in winter, a gurgling fountain where

I sit crisscross, reading in summer.
 

Oh, there must be more than this provincial life,

more than the pretty words of suitors, tap-tapping my

snub nose, outlining the heart shape of my face with fat

fingers crowded by a thousand brass rings, bulbous eyes

leering at my wasp waist, at the nape of my neck, bare,

save for a few strands escaping a navy ribbon.

I can feel their eyes on me as I pass, and I am afraid.
 

I am afraid of my beauty, I am afraid of my femininity,

even as the beast seals me in the ivory tower up high,

iron gates wound in steel threads around vines and thorns

and stone lions, guarding ancient castle roses dipped

in the same oxblood that drips from his jowls, this chimera,

this minotaur, this animal with tusks and horns and eyes

that cut like the frigid bite of glaciers, cold, hard, unmerciful.
 

He is a demon, a carnivore that strokes my cheek

with sharp talons as he giggles at my fear, my tears,

whispering that he can smell the anxiety and perspiration

on my skin, I am so alive; he could snap me in half, but no,

he wants to deny me food, watch me tremble, watch me tuck

into a fetal position and breathe heavily, gasping for air, left

only in the company of clocks and candles and teacups.
 

Lumière the living flame says it is a way of expressing

his love, but I am not so sure; what does love look like?

I forgive him, the beast, for all his faults – they are but small

flaws, like the tiny burrs in his whiskers prickling me when

we kiss, but it makes no difference in our story stained on

glass, weaved into tapestries, permanently etched in history;

the story of how I forgive, and forgive, and forgive.
 

I forgive, even when he backhands me with his paw, after

I tease him for his bad table manners, my lip torn and bloody,

creating a mess of frayed nerves and damaged scar tissue I try

to heal with gauze and words: I will survive, I will prevail,

he loves me, he can change, I will survive, I will prevail,

he loves me, he can change, I will survive, I will prevail,

he can change, he can change, I can change him.
 

And he sounds so sincere, so apologetic the next day,

opening the oak doors to the library, to the shelves tightly

pressed with a thousand epic tomes, tales as old as time,

sweet rhymes of princes and princesses, flowers and wicked

curses, of talking crockery and yellow dresses; and I am

satisfied, effacing the memory of his elongated canines,

and the promise of violence on his breath.
 

When he asks me to dance later, ignoring the poor job I did

at concealing the bruise on my face swelling in brilliant

colors of mango and pine and violet, of course I accept.

The train of my gown rustles on marble floors, crystalline

beads stitched on the bodice glinting as he spins me under

the chandelier; and I try to stare at the gold trimming,

the shiny buttons on his coat, anywhere but his eyes.

I try to convince myself that he is a better man beneath

the hairy exterior, for he is beast, and I am beauty, and I

am meant to see past his looks, because I am compassionate,

kind, and lovely; because his human name is Adam, so does

that not make me Eve? The same Eve, whose shard of bone

Adam twists to make her feel that pain in her ribs, so sharp

that she no longer notices it forever embedded in her side.

Except, the gilded mirror does not lie, its jewel-encrusted

back scraping my palm, thumb skimming the hairline cracks

that cut through a reflection of puckered flesh, angry

welts, old and new, condemning me to a future steeped

in the regret of a country bumpkin from once-upon-a-time.

But enough; no more, no more, for only cowards relish

in the comfort of lies, in the hope of false reassurances.

So hand me my cloak, my hair ribbon and book, hand me

my knife to carve out a place in this strange, loud world,

expanding, living, breathing just for me. We are endless,

this earth and I, this papery ash of the library I burned

to the ground, letting the charred words break and remake

me, restoring my belief in the hideous nature of beasts,

and the beauty found in happy endings.