Hung-over Fairytale: 6:38 by Anne Runkel

Hung-over Fairytale: 6:38


Formal introduction to the acid taste in the back of my mouth:

Aspirin. Water. Cheese sandwich. “Likewise. A pleasure.”

Hands shaking, I curtsy, grab the edge of the sink.

I’d better ignore the mirror and the strange frog

sitting amid the ruffled sheets, rubbing his eyes.

I leave the bed unmade.

 

Later, on my way to the station in the early-morning rain,

a raven on the rooftop: ‘She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be a pigeon?

Your wet, black feathers are not the quill that writes my story.’

I board the train at the very last moment. And sit –

thinking about white knights, and the cracks and dents in my nail polish.

 

By Anne Runkel

 

Anne Runkel is a young part-time poet and musicologist making a living as Administrator and Receptionist in London. She adores Getrude Stein and likes to tap her feet to avant-garde jazz and fresh indie sounds. Suffering from Cosmopolitan Nationality Disorder, she finds it hard to remember whether she is from Hamburg, London, Kiev or just a tiny island off the coast of France.

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