Sleeping Beauty
Asleep, she was the perfect woman.
Her quiet breathing seduced me
with promise of coming princedom.
She was rose and alabaster sunrise
on a glassbed with silver-quilted lining.
The thirteenth fairy must have known it then.
Watching her, I found justification
for the soot-beaten forest around the castle,
for the unmanning odor of animal flesh
reduced to ashes by screams and fire
I had stoked. In sudden anger, I cursed
the witch who pricked her with the spindle.
When we kissed for the first and last time,
I thought I'd burn forever. Her eyes opened
to yellow slits as she gripped me and fed
voraciously on my tongue. The wise fairy
must have known it then. After a hundred years,
the spell was to be broken by the usual fool.
© 2003 Arlene Ang
Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator and web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Poet's Canvas, Scrivener's Pen, Tryst, three candles and sidereality. Recent awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002 Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner.
