Please consider the enclosed poems for publication. They are from my manuscript, X = Pawn Capture, a lyrical study of the history of chess as my grandfather misrepresented it to me because he loved to tell his stories or, if you like the sound of this better, because I was too young to comprehend his
indifference to me. In any case I preferred more my grandmother's understanding of a story, how her calendar was full of images of needles and flames and rushes of wheat, all standing for the way a young girl was left to fend for herself when the Romans decided to make a saint of her. We would sit in front of the stove while something proceeded though its permutations in order to be consumed by evening, and she'd speak of Saint Panacea's stepmother, Margherita di Locarno Sesia, who stabbed the little girl with a spindle because she was so pure, and I would imagine Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and castles of stone hewn out of quarries and bright-stepping horses with braided manes.
While the ashy length of my grandfather's cigar would measure the evening's disappointments by increments, the part of my brain built for learning and memory was focused on the strength of the hair follicle required for a
healthy man to climb a high tower braced only by the golden length of her hair. If I
could have transferred these thoughts to that part of the brain that processes
motivation and emotion, or reading or language, I could write how Rapunzel felt
as she supported the king's son's weight up the tower, only partially reeling
from the stress on the outer root sheath and the dermal papilla. And all the
unhappiness that follows in that story is because her mother, one enchanted
evening, was hungry for wild ferns.
Thank you for your consideration, and for reading. I have enclosed an SASE, and look forward to hearing from you.