Sleeping Beauty

by Johnny Clewell

Prick of the spindle.

What did she think in that moment,

her first intimation of pain?

The princess stared at

the blood, red as cherries

on fairy-blessed beauty

and skin white as milk.

No one had warned her.

No one had ever sat her down and simply explained.

Silent, Father banished all spindles,

spinsters, spinning wheels and loose talk.

Mother's mouth was sewn shut.

Thus she was all alone when she climbed those rickety stairs

and felt the first prick of the needle,

the abrupt transformation,

the ribbon of blood.

She sloughed off the skin of a girl,

turned into a woman,

and fell to the floor.

I say:

Don't blame an evil fairy.

Fathers, mothers and daughters must speak,

lest that bright, blood-red awakening turn

into sleep dark and heavy as death.