Untitled Sad Princess #1
Naomi Falk
I am here to tell you about a princess’s conundrum…
The Garden
A whisper away from moonrise, the saintly realm of vapor and flesh settles across the grounds of our castle where I, in my hazy memories, once knelt below the pines to bury my late pet mouse, covering the earth in girl tears and monumental agony. And now the flowerbed exhales like a mammal. Isn’t that something? Wild Cascade lily glass blown lamplight. Harvest this fleshly bounty. Having seen too much, now, having known too much. I am the most medieval. Those sounds outside the kingdom’s walls are luscious and overgrown, and as I walk astride them I command my fingers against the aged stone—feeling a part of the earth on its outside—and the tremors from beyond whisk my imagining heart into a bundle of green green tendrils. Always is a harsh word for what draws me. The predictability of this princess’s life. I’m moving beyond. Bronze platter in the vegetable garden gleams over and over again like a lighthouse: one crushed tomato and a sprig of burning lavender.
The Gate
Gelatinous, midnight eye swivels to track me across the threshold. Sharp intake of breath to hold consciousness hostage. Ailment of devotion to the living and to live. The fragment of nocturne leaks from the corners of my mouth and I clasp my tentacled hand to bind it to my tongue. You are coming with me.
The Forest
The chime of the forsaken grotto is out there, I think as I crawl toward the outlands. Beneath its distant and astral shade, await grandiose promises. I am not quite controlling my body. Are you? Five apparitions executing disambiguation in the shade. They gaze. Their hovering fingers point in every direction. Cease. I was told to expect a tree on the hill. I somewhat regret this and the earth beneath me is like a soft belly, absorbing me into sleep. Looking back toward my crimson brocade, glassy bottles, ivory keys. In my carnelian wake, I’ve shed enough to eat for a lifetime. Who will consume my royal offerings?—the damp and previous interiors I beg you to receive.
Naomi Falk is a writer, editor, and book designer living in Brooklyn. She works at MoMA and is also an editor for Archway Editions, co-founder of print mag NAUSIKÂE, and periodically publishes visual artist monographs under her imprint entitled Crop Circle Press. She sometimes organizes and hosts raves.