The Handless Maiden In Verse - Part 3
Monthly poems serializing a classic tale in verse...
Dear friends,
Thank you so much for stepping into this little corner of the poetry world. :)
Welcome to the third installment of The Handless Maiden in Verse! If you missed Part 1 & 2, not to worry! They’re linked here:
Re-sharing my blurb from the past few months, too:
I also know a lot is going on right now & I know you feel its residue, too. So I wanted to share some newsletters that help me stay informed (but grounded) amid the slush of social media: The On Canada Project (for other fantastic Substacks, you can see which ones I read & recommend here), The 1440, Reimagined, Collective Rest, Al Jazeera, Press Progress, The Breach, and SAPIENS.
I hope you enjoy this month’s materials. :)
Take gentle, tender care & speak soon.
Gratefully,
The Handless Maiden - Part 3
There is always a choice, though not always one we can see. Eva thought she knew her father well enough to know whether or not he chose not to see while controlled by the anticipatory fear of disobedience. Because some do, and this, Slyth very much knew was how the most terrible orders were carried through. For one week Eva lay with the plump pigs. She rolled among the dead foliage, her loose, long curls brushed by twigs and branches. She was docked from all water except to drink. The soiled world clung to her in layers like acrylic paint. It was heavy, not unbearable. The pressure compressed her past into dough-like rounds inside her body—fuel for a heart and set of lungs learning to be with land. Under the weight she did not crumble. Soon, she expected her mother to say: grief will come in waves. And so it wept, spilling from Eva’s eyes when Slyth returned. Mother didn't say anything about grief washing folks clean, because grief is what we have most in common. And Slyth, now, a week later couldn't bear to see his own reflection in Eva's grief, and as if guiding a stream, her leathery damp hands spread the rinsing across her body. Slyth couldn't take her with hands he has not faced, himself, with grief he couldn't recognize as shared. The salt and proteins from Eva’s tears coated her hands the way pigs use mud to moisturize their skin. She closed her eyes and imagined the compounds weaving into griefs: lost friends, lovers, family members. “What is she doing?!” Slyth shouted, sneering up at the open window of the Miller’s house. The Miller and his wife peered out from behind green velvet curtains. And they did not speak a word as they watched instead of witnessed. “It's her hands! She has magic!" Slyth screamed with jealousy. “They must be chopped off. I know you still have the sacred silver axe I gifted you, dear brother. Get it." The Miller looked at his wife who did not look back. “You cannot think up what will happen to you, your family, your village. I know curses no woman can clean of their filth and rot!" The Miller tasted his brother's rage and wrath in the back of his throat like a soft, papery apple, nearly rotten but not quite. “When I return, in one week, tell me what I will see!" Slyth screeched, now, with the anger of being ignored. But the Miller appeared beneath the frame of the back door, silver axe in hand. “You will see a handless maiden." Eva didn't recognize the man who spoke. Slyth grinned, teeth dripping, and vanished into the forest. There is always a choice, though not always one we can see. This is how the most terrible orders are carried out, like the creaking of long-locked gates opening, letting something else—something old—in. The Miller walked towards Eva, carrying an axe so seamless it looked as though it had been dipped in silver paint. Eva wanted to believe it was fear that could chop the hands off of another, not the soul. The Miller stopped, eyes calm. Eva couldn’t distinguish: was he dissociating or did he know something that she couldn’t yet? She stared at him, suspecting as she held out her arms, wrists turned upwards, exposing green veins. The Miller nodded, crossing the salt circle where his brother could not. He lifted the axe with the strength of harsh heartbreak, and brought it down. Eva's hands fell, immediately turning to solid silver. “How did you cross? Where did you get that axe?" The Miller’s eyes and stomach filled. He turned to wretch spiced apples into the grass. Wiped his lips with blood- spattered sleeves. “Hands in the hands of an oppressor become the weapon that severs them." Eva blinked. Clever words, she thought, like wine glasses, clink. And yet, you still drink. “You could have protected me, before. This apology is eerily poor. You let him back in to your heart. And therefore mine. And now I must decide and believe I don’t want hands so that the rest of my body doesn't also turn to silver." The Miller nearly choked on the ache inside his throat, and ran back inside the house. "You didn’t answer my questions," Eva whispered to her wounds as she blunted the bleeding with salt. To Be Continued...
Before You Go…
Here are a few life-giving poems from some brilliant poets:
Oysters by Seamus Heaney
The Bug by Tommye Blount
Think of Others by Mahmoud Darwish
Meditations in An Emergency by Cameron Awkward-Rich
Mother and Daughter by Hayan Charara
Orchids Are Sprouting From The Floorboards by Kaveh Akbar
