In fairy tales, a woman is often sought, though sometimes
the seeker. Nothing happens inside. It is all marked
on the skin, for everyone to see—the pained
feet, singed hair, terrible silence.
The woman serves and waits
with troubling love,
learning patience from desire.
She goes
to churchyards, her flesh sick with fear,
to make nettle shirts, stinging her hands
to blisters and welts.
She serves the blacksmith, a man
who’s never heard one word of consolation.
For seven years, she will melt herself
down and climb
a mountain of glass,
a mess and muddle of light, each piece
embedded in her body—she shines
as she faces the wedded end
with nothing to say.