Only When the Moon Wanes Can Rapunzal Sleep, by Tonya Eberhard

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There is a recurring dream,
Filled with white sheets and knives,
A nocturnal reality, not what it seems,
Paper-thin men, contrived.

Filled with white sheets and knives
The mouth can only gape; stifled O.
Paper-thin men, contrived,
Transform into a murder of crows.

The mouth can only gape; stifled O,
As blue candlesticks dance in a mirror,
Transforming into a murder of crows.
A voice calls to stir, stir.

As blue candlesticks dance in a mirror,
The figure wrapped in white rises from the bed.
A voice calls to stir, stir.
To follow, to be led.

The figure wrapped in white rises from the bed,
Leaves the tower into the snow.
To follow, to be led.
Outside, a stark white doe.

Leaving the tower into the snow,
Barefoot, lungs inhaling pure air, life—
Look! A stark white doe.
In the snow, a knife.

Barefoot, lungs inhaling pure air, life.
The men, the crows, the doe, speak: Cut off your hair.
In the snow, a knife.
She reaches, to poise the blade in the air—

Men, crows, doe, speak: Let down your hair.
A nocturnal reality, not what it seems.
She reaches, the blade now poised midair
In a recurring dream


Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Algebra of OwlsThe Commonline JournalDirty ChaiYellow Chair ReviewOpen Minds Quarterly, and many others.

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Posted on December 21, 2016, in Issue 19: Speculative Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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