Spellcaster

A golden-haired girl born

in a month of sacrifice,

poor little lamb

throws off her wool coat

and pulls out boots she stole

and rides off on a reindeer instead

and of course she can speak to roses—

isn’t that the point?

Eventually she ends up in a castle

but it’s not her home.

It’s a place to liberate,

to escape, to decimate.

The whole place collapses,

a series of chandeliers made

of glass and ice. Off she goes.

Blackberries and currants in her pockets.

Roses blooming in her footpaths.

Wouldn’t you rather be the girl

that casts her own spells?