Rumpelstilskin
By
Britta Kollberg
When the king opened the door—golden
her hair, her fingertips, and the heaps of
fear spun to hard sticks shimmering with relief
the straw still pricking inside her morning bread,
in the kohl on her eyelid,
her reclining chair,
in the baby’s toes inside her belly,
in the gilded ring finger on
her hand,
in all her futility and father’s name