The brass key has dulled, the ribbon frayed,
From
long years upon the peg.
At
first he warned her then threatened:
“Do
not go up those stairs,
Do
not use the key to open the door to that room!”
And
she didn’t.
He
left the castle on trumped up trips—
Yet
she didn’t touch the key.
He
had her maid whisper of previous wives
Tortured,
murdered, hung on hooks,
Their
bones still in the room
--all true—
And
she laughed.
Curse
or compulsion, he couldn’t kill her,
Add
to his collection, until she looked.
A
child arrived and then another
And
then more. Decades passed;
Her
knees grew too worn to climb the stairs
Even
if she’d wanted.
Now
he smacks his toothless gums,
His
snowy eyes startle at shadows
While
he shivers beside a roaring fire.
She
smiles across the hearth:
As
her mother always told her,
Nobody’s
perfect.
Lola
Lucas
