jilted bride hanging from the 18th story
Skirts of her dress
spread out like a wing span
across the cement of the building front,
her arms outstretched
as crying bridesmaids grasp her hair from the window,
she is an angel trying to leave this world
because love has left her behind.
From the streets below
she is vengeance turned inward,
that if he won’t have her
no man will—
like the evil sorceress in old folktales
her mother once read to her before bedtime.
In those stories,
the Prince always came,
always took the princess away,
they never rode into the sunset apart.
She wants the feel of the saddle beneath her hips,
the press of leather tunic on her bodice,
her mother promised
when she was young and tired
and so willing to believe.