You were telling me a story of your great-grandmother’s
over a bottle of Burgundy by a bubbling fire.
Deep in the Forest of Language there dwelt a manikin
not called Rumpelstiltskin. His name was not that important.
One day a riderless mare trotted to a halt at his door.
The manikin brought her to stable and fed her some hay.
He was surprised when the mare upped and spoke in the King’s French.
I am not a mare, she said, but the King’s daughter bewitched.
And because you have fed and stabled me I shall become
princess again. And she changed as she spoke before his eyes.
In return you have three wishes. I only want one wish,
said the manikin. I’m a manikin. Make me a man.
The by now fully-formed beautiful woman blinked at him
and in the blank and pupil of her eye he became man.
You took a long sip of wine. And what happened then? I said.
The princess summoned a horse from nowhere and galloped home.
The man walked to a great city. He became a joiner.
He grew skilled at his trade and his heart was in all he made.
He grew justly famous for his miniature chests of drawers,
each crafted from a plank of his oak house in the forest.
But still he pined for the day that he’d set the princess free.
He never looked at a woman until the day he died,
his last wish to be buried in the Forest of Language,
his body to be laid in a box of his own device.
To this day, if you happen to pass that shadowy glade
you may see a ghostly rider riding a ghostly mare.
You lit a cigarette. And as for the princess? I said.
She married an English prince and got beheaded, you said.
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