Catherynne M. Valente
Glass, Blood, And Ash
Please, silk-sister, do this thing for me.
I do not want to sit on that broad-backed horse,
or smell his skin, grassy and hot as boiled husks,
inside a shirt ropy with gold tassels and primogeniture.
I never wanted it. I just
wanted to look like you
for one night. It should be you
hoisted up like a sack of wheat—
I stole your ruby comb,
your garnet pendant.
It must have been
your jewels he loved.
You will like it — they will put emeralds in your hair
and a thin gold crown on your ...