Deep in the fen, they came prepared to cut away at the rope,
undo the knots of the cloth covering your face
to lead you out of the spatha cage you made,
the door was already open.
When they came near, you raged—
sliced your skin, tributaries of blood,
staining the marshland you trapped yourself in.
Even then they tried to call you out
into a vast blooming meadow.
You are the sacrifice, the victim—
and maybe your god will rescue you
if you prove you are a worthy maiden.
After all, he helped you build this:
handed the swords to you one by one,
placed his palms over yours
and pressed the metal into the sand.
he convinced you that staying in this prison
was your destiny.
If you open your eyes, you’ll find
you can slip through without carving
your flesh too deep.