Forging The Iron Clogs, By Sarah Stasik
It’s always the blacksmith who does these things,
as if metal and magic go together.
You learn to be quiet
and hear no evil--only the ping-ping bang
of metal on metal,
and the hiss of the boil in the water.
But when pale to-be queens
with ebony eyes
commission such objects with hatred,
you can’t help but hear
the history that’s spilled
through apple red lips with a whisper.
And you know that you’ll tell,
not today, but tomorrow…
how the fairest of all in the land
ordered the clogs
to be made for a dance
that would last ‘til the wearer was
Sarah Stasik writes from a crooked mountain in Virginia, where she lives with her husband and son. Visit her blog at http://www.letters-to-the-cosmos.blogspot.com/ to read some random thoughts and find out more about her writing.