Hannah Sanghee Park

The glassy hill I clomb for thee For surefooted step, hooves behoove the haver. The sky redid blue, the woman wavered, and the black bull (the vanquisher), vanished. She called out to nothing, and in vain shed tears until she reached the glass hill’s impasse. Served her standard fairy tale penance,passim, served her seven to be given iron shoes to — at last — scale the hill, the earned neared end. Each step conquered territory, at last, the sleeping prince-once-bull, torrid tearing of clothes, tearing on one’s clothes, three nights of this until the prince awakes. How she, exhausted, must have felt in the at long last, the ever after. Happily, I guess, but a long time until laughter.

The kiss is, strictly speaking, a passing of of twice: a bead from her mouth to his, then back, ad nauseam, and the boys who lived and died for it. The lovely girl amassing ninety-nine spirits, and in high spirits for consuming her highest amount. Once the hundredth boy arrived she starts her hunt in her haunt, a hill’s field filled with fitting Artemisia absinthium.

The asking was askance. And the tell all told. So then, in tandem, Anathema, and anthem. The truth was on hold, Seeking too tasking. And the wool was pulled Over as cover. No eyes were kept peeled. My iris I missed The truth, now mistrust All things seen, and this Distrust, the sounded distress signal Called and called and culled from your damsel.