a journal of fantastical poetry


by Mari Ness

King's daughter. He told me I
could love only him. King's daughter.
Worthy only of a king. And what king
more worthy than he, father of
a daughter such as I?

Out of that bitterness, green leaves and bark.
Out of that bark, slow moving myrrh.
Out of that myrrh, a lingering perfume,
resting long in the walls, the fingers.

October 20th, 2014

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