The Gang of Twelve

by Alison Hurwitz


These days, we’re over it.
These days, we Princesses don’t let others
denouement our stories for us. 

Who wants some twisted Brother Grimm
or prim Hans Christian Anderson
to put in a prince who shows up rescuing, revealing
and congealing all the magic we would rather not display
into some jello mold of Happy Ending, preserving every
tale that we’ve enchanted in a jiggled dome of aspic, impotent,
just a dish to shimmy on the baroque extravaganza of a banquet table,
a wedding feast that presents us as the final piece de resistance,
well-greased, a piglet to be carved, consumed,
our stories rendered, melted down, and used
to feed a flame that will extinguish all our names, 
hours later in complying sheets, the stultifying marriage bed.

Why should we be discovered and uncovered by some
upstart adolescent who styles himself investigator,
who’s intent on fingering his eager-breathing curiosity
through every fold of mystery we’ve hidden? 
He is no match for twelve of us, with his obviously borrowed cloak,
his clumsy bumbling attempt to creep invisible.  Did he think we could
not see his footprints through the scattered silver gold leaf-litter, all his
obviously oafish tracks trudged through our secret kingdom in the moonlight? 

Over confident, he pauses, drooling wetly at our royal brilliance,
our magical magnificence. Too late. Did he assume we wouldn’t rate
his weight in that last coracle, and wait for him to disembark,
then fall upon him, glittering, the diamonds in our wild and unbound hair
sparkling like a troop of shooting meteors, signalling extinction of this kind
of fairy tale, spelling out the end of his own clever-seeming countenance?
He thought we played the harp back in the upper world, strummed decorous
arpeggios; in fact, we are sharp bird-women, harpies free to peck away
his eager eyes and leave him blindly wandering in circles.

We pass him bloody,  aimless and confused, stripped
of arrogance and agency, forced to get lost, while we continue up the hill
and enter through the castle gates to meet our partners, do our nightly dancing.
If you are listening through some other means of manly-murky magic,
here’s a fair and clarion-clear warning: Do not attempt to follow us.
We’ll make you wish you’d never heard our story.
“Happily Ever After” isn’t on the menu.

So glad we’re clear on this. Next time you’re in our neighborhood,
be sure to visit, share a meal with us. Enjoy your quivered Prince Ambrosia,
your wobbly Jello Salad. We’ll make it just for you.


* * * * *

Alison Hurwitz is a feminist, non-traditional wedding and memorial service officiant, editor and poet. Her work has most recently been featured in Global Poemic, Words and Whispers Journal, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus Volumes 1 and 2, and received an honorable mention in Tiferet Journal’s annual poetry competition.  On the second Saturday of each month, Alison facilitates a free online poetry reading, Well-Versed Words.  Poets interested in appearing on Well-Versed Words may contact her at wellversedwords@gmail.com. She lives with her husband, two sons and rescue dog in North Carolina. Find links to her work at www.alisonhurwitz.com.