She pricks her finger

on the tip of the bottle opener

 

its silver screw

ready to twirl into the cork

like spooling thread.

 

She doesn’t need

to sleep for a hundred years,

she just needs to sleep tonight

 

just needs to put the curse off

for another hour, another day,

just needs for time to pass without her existence.

 

It is too dark

to keep looking at the briar hedges,

tomorrow promises too many dragons;

 

the spiral of women’s work

the weight of a hundred years

 

another day her hands will be

so heavy.

 

And who is to know

the intention of a falling finger,

there is no accountability in dreamlessness.

 

Is the warmth now filling her

the gentle drop of blood,

and oncoming sleep

 

or the smooth swallow

of red wine?

 

The story runs off the page,

the reader drifts into sleep

 

the princess does not ask

how they get there.