Volume 4 Number 1
Glass is the color of my true love’s eye,
And nettle is the texture of his hair.
Wherever I look for myself, he’s there,
Unrelenting, never passing me by.
Was ever bride more conflicted than I?
He put basil beneath my plate, a snare
Intended to capture my heart and care,
So now I must love him truly, or die.
But that old grimoire has another page,
I’ll warrant he didn’t bother to read,
And that page, too, is true to what I ate.
No spell can bind a woman’s rightful rage –
Oh, let him take my bed, and let him plead –
For the other face of basil is hate.