I’m the one who can say, if I say,
I’m really an old fashioned girl.
Now be honest, isn’t that why you came?
Twisted briars full of dead birds and bones.
I am simple, irresistible, in my comatose.
The untrendy high brow, my sun dusted face
full of blue veins, ripe as stilton.
What kind of prince can find no woman awake?
Falls in love with yarns of my seasons, spun as centuries.
Oh baby, maybe you were the first to lick these chapped lips,
Lift and wrap these arms, place unchewed yellow fingernails
on your neck, and move until they scraped down your back–
push past stained skirts to my hips’ stone arches.
Hush honey, I know.
You’ve been visiting for years.
The whisper of me creeps up on you,
A beauty of bedsores, the allure of my half death repose.
Cuddle up, smell the dreams that might be on my breath.
Tell your friends, you had the oldest eighteen year old in the world.
Before that wet kiss on cold skin, sweetie, don’t forget
to hold your nose, prise open my peepers,
and wait for my first words, after well water.
For the sake of happy ever after, do I thank you for my awakening?
Or are you dying to hear what I’m really thinking?
The gashes on your hands, the thorny fingers, your blunt sword.
This is forever. You make it go on and on.
Poor lamb! How far even a prince of a man will go
for the rumor of this woman who cannot say no.