The Story Begins
with the body of a dead girl: a child bride who died in childbirth, a young beauty devoured by a wolf, a beloved sister hacked to pieces by a wizard. Her broken angles are a lullaby, a treasure map, a puzzle to be solved. Cheeks rising before us still flushed pink, she’s dead but she keeps on living in story after story--a lock of hair wrapped in a napkin, the poison apple still at large. We aren’t the ones who killed her, but we wanted the story to begin, so we turned the page and there she fell beneath our fingers. We couldn't look away.
with the body of a dead girl: a child bride who died in childbirth, a young beauty devoured by awolf, a beloved sister hacked to pieces by a wizard. Her broken in angles are a lullaby, a treasure map, a puzzle to be solved . Cheeks ris in g before us still flushed p ink , she’s dead but she keeps on living in story a fter story --a lock of hair wrapped in a napkin, the poison pple still at large. We aren’t the ones who killed her, but we wanted the story to begin, so we turn ed the page and there she fell beneath our fingers. We couldn't look away.
The Story Ends
with the body of a dead girl. The road suddenly pauses after a long stretch of gravel: another dead end street. We kept thinking it would eventually lead somewhere. We got in the car, took the wheel, kept our foot to the pedal, and in truth the road did lead somewhere--just not where we wanted to go. It led to the edge of a cliff and now we’ve got to look over. It led to the outskirts of a forest and now we've got to enter--the wood where she lies waiting to be opened, hands pressed at her sides and lips slightly parted as if they still had something they wanted to say. Hush. Of course it’s not our fault. We didn’t want her dead, but we kept the story going. We had to know how it would end.
with the body of a dead girl. The road suddenly pause s after a long stretch of gravel: another dead end street. We kept thinking it would eventually lead somewhere. We got in the car, took the wheel, kept our foot to the pedal, and in truth the road did lead somewhere--just notwhere we w a n t ed to go. It led to the edge of a cliff and now we’ve got to look over. It led to the outskirts of a forest and now we've got to enter--the wood where she lays waiting to be opened, hands pressed at her sides and lips slightly parted as if they still had something they wanted to say. Hush. Of course it’s not our fault. We didn’t want her dead, but we kept the story going. We had to know how it would end.
Holly Karapetkova
Holly Karapetkova is Poet Laureate Emerita of Arlington, Virginia, and recipient of an Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellowship for her work with young poets. Her third book of poems is Dear Empire from Gunpowder Press.