The Lorelei Signal

Erasing Myself From the Narrative
Written by Marsheila Rockwell / Artwork by Marge Simon

My stepmother was a witch
But, then, this is a fairy tale
All stepmothers are witches here
As if the very act of raising
Another woman’s child
Is enough to curdle maternal instinct
Incite envy, compel the rod
And poison good will
Hiding some jealous truth beneath
A shiny, red, delicious skin
That only yields its dark secrets
To hungry tooth, or thirsty blade
Piercing, slicing, tearing away
Revealing the imagined worm within
But, then, this poem isn’t about her
My mother was the wife of a lettuce-thief
A virgin/whore heavy with child
Whose cravings would not be denied
She had to be punished for daring to desire
And so I was taken from her, new born
But this poem isn’t about her, either
This poem is about me, alone
In my lofty tower of stone
Where my stepmother, the witch
Put me to keep me safe
From a fairy tale’s many and varied dangers
Which is to say, from princes
But, this being a fairy tale
Those princes and their cravings
Will no more be denied
Than my mother’s prenatal hankerings
Though hers at least only required
The theft of a witch’s salad greens
And not the plundering of a virgin
And the plucking of her juicy maidenhood
Her low-born status all the better
For her prince’s inevitable abandonment
Leaving her to reap what he had sown
(Princesses being, in these particular tales
Less than ideal protagonists
Their fathers often not appreciating
The devaluation of their property)
But I am not a princess
And this poem is about me, alone
In my lofty tower of stone
Where songbirds bring me herbs and flowers
Mice delivers roots and gems, spiders spin
Fine cheesecloths for filtering tinctures
And a great horned owl named Archimedes
Angry at his magician
Once brought me a book of spells
Bound in supple skin, unlikely to be human
I learned many things from that grimoire
And found a way I could escape
Not from my lofty tower of stone
Cool in summer, warm in winter
Its window overlooking a forest lake
Indeed, I have no desire
To leave this peaceful place
That I have made my home
I plan to leave this fairy tale
I lack only one component
But that shall soon be remedied
Ah, there he is, my plot device
Calling for me to let down my hair
I do so gladly, tossing out my thick braid
Its length an unwelcome weight
Made more unwelcome by the addition of his
I hold my strong shears ready, steady, waiting
When he nears my window, I begin to cut
Sawing through the heavy plaits
With blades sharpened daily
In anticipation of this purpose
“I’m almost there!” he cries, panting
“Me, too,” I gasp, breathing hard, “Don’t stop!”
His hand breaches my window summit
Just as the last strand snaps
He grabs wildly at the ledge
And I stab him with my scissors
His desperate grip loosens, he falls
And the sound his body makes on impact
With the jutting rocks below
Is music worthy of the nightingale
I summon butterflies, sending them to collect
A different kind of nectar
The blood of a prince, freshly slain
The last ingredient for my spell
Once the flurry of painted wings departs
I call my circle, focus my intent
Speak the prescribed incantation
Mix my potion in a pigeon-pilfered beaker
Then walk to the window, lean out
And dash the glass against the tower wall
The liquid splatters, and where it lands
The stone begins to smoke, pit, disappear
I withdraw, a smile tugging at my lips
Less of triumph, though there is that, surely
More of sheer, unburdened relief
My tower will be hidden now
Vanishing from the pages of this fairy tale
Visible only to my animal friends
Who have never wished me any harm
I am not my stepmother, a fairy tale witch
I build no candy houses, own no
Mirrors with literary pretensions
(There is a cat; he’d say he owns me)
I do not eat children and I do not make bad bargains
With mermaids, or the husbands of pregnant neighbors
I am simply—finally—free
But fairy tales have no place
For a truly free woman
And I am well quit of this one
Rewritten, replaced, forgotten, erased
So I guess this poem isn’t about me, after all
Thank goodness



Marsheila Rockwell is a Rhysling Award-nominated poet and the author of twelve books and dozens of poems and short stories.
She is a disabled pediatric cancer and mental health awareness advocate and a reconnecting Chippewa/Métis. She lives in the desert with my family, buried under books.
Find out more here: www.marsheilarockwell.com.