Apparently my insomnia can

resist even the enchanted sleep

cast by a spited fairy

Now everyone slumbers

even the moths drowse

leaving curtains half-nibbled

Except me, who still can’t

get a decent night’s rest

and the thorns surrounding the castle

are too dense, too spiky for

me to get through

 

I’ve become over-familiar with

all the windows’ views

The southernmost tower overlooks a pond

where seven turtles live and a woman

visits them every day, but never speaks

Instead she hacks at the castle’s thorns

breaks them off

winces

cries

strips away fibers

I can’t fathom how much

it must hurt

 

She works in silence, never

sings to herself, only spins thorns

into thread, which she knits

into little cardigans for the turtles

measuring carefully around their

shells and little turtle feet

 

Except today is different

 

Today there is shouting, as people on horses

crash toward the pond

I shout to warn her but the thorns

absorb my voice

Finally, frantically, threatened by swords

and spears and shouting

she throws the cardigans onto the turtles

one cardigan tears open at the back

Everything becomes light and furor until —

 

Instead of turtles now

there are seven men

one with a turtle shell

still upon his back

She slumps, worn out

A figure in gleaming armor leaves

his horse, kneels before her

shaking with regret

 

Soon she and the figures on horses

and the turtles-no-longer

are gone, but I

remain here in the castle

never sleeping

​