This poem was originally published in Star*Line 48.3 in July 2025.
The man is woven half out of fairytales
and the rest from wilted morning glories.
When he reaches up to feel the wall,
his branching, leafy tendrils of fingers
trace straightforward paths across the colors and the stones.
What happened here? he asks.
You grin, red petals
forming lips, golden pollen
becoming your smile’s broken teeth.
I did.
You sweep your vines aside to reveal the mosaic:
a girl, asleep;
the clawing tendrils of your roses absorbing her tower,
grinding through the stones;
your thorns slicing the thumbs of errant rescuers
and making myths out of their mistakes.
You extend your thorns to pierce him
the same way.
But the man is made of leaves and vines
and even your sharpest edges
can draw no blood from ghosts of greenery.
He ascends, and now you are the one cut,
your vines sliced open by his sword
and you are—
ruby petals fluttering to earth
leaves limp and broken under forceful heels
vines dragged from the tower’s
safe, steady walls.
After he reaches the sleeping princess
your leaves will be torn, your vines
shredded. Your buds will be crushed
beneath joyful feet.
But your roots
will endure.