a journal of fantastical poetry





Myrrha

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



web design © mitchell hart