burr soft
moths land up against my tongue
I chew through your spell but I do not know how
not to return to you.
here, I encase my fingers in your hair, wind
it about my wrists.
the bones are fragile there; I feel them cut,
your cascades
of rumpelstiltskin gold and werewolf silver.
I am bound to you in rapunzel knots and
I do not know I am unwilling but when I step away
you reel me back.
I do not think you know how to set me free
with these strands tight against our throats.
I do not resent loving you,
some days.
| Hester J. Rook is an Australian Shadows Award-winning and Rhysling Award-shortlisted poet, fiction writer and co-editor of Twisted Moon Magazine. They are often found salt-scrunched on beaches, reading arcane tales and losing the moon in mugs of tea. Find Hester on Twitter @hesterjrook and read more poems and fiction at hesterjrook.com. |  |