with ringlets dearer gold than ingots
and that dread beauty -- a pitcher plant
luring with its satin and its doom
white black red, you said -- a raven at
the feast of death on the blank white sheet
of winter, hung out to dry on trees
bleak and black, the Cailleach's laundry.
you think i did not know of desire --
the tall, twisted tree of me, with my
curled lips strained with curses and song and
mockeries that could slay kings with words.
for who am i, the daughter of slaves
who caught a druid's eye with her wit
and took the job to fence you in, you
with fate around your head, a thorn-ring.
but bards are the keepers of secrets,
and a daughter of slaves more so.
your broad wings clipped by royal decree --
future concubine, caged hawk, hooded.
for bards are the keepers of secrets
and you -- a cipher, a key lost to the lock.
the hawk must seize the air and sparrow --
so clear the kenning, the end, the tale.
white black red -- the desire runs through you
carving red rivers through the hillsides,
the king pursing, the green graves you
leave in your footprints like daisies, hope.
the endless flight under your feathers,
until you're reeled back to the arm and
corded, blind, and choose the branch and stone
your eggshell skull spilling its yolk.
fly, bird, fly. here is the key to
all riddles, all desires, all the pain
of your name. and i give you his, and
unlatch the wire gate of your prison.
for bards are the keepers of secrets,
and the tellers of them, with sharp tongues
edging brutal fates from the still air.
i knew the tale before its telling.