Samodiva
He took you, nymph, from your spring
you left the pool with water as clear as tears
he saw your naked beauty only as woman
not wilderness
you protect the woods, the spruce and the pine
because there will always be men
be men who bury their axes into bark
until they strip it of its dark dress
unveiled to its golden light skin
he dragged you to the wood hut
told you to tend to the fire
the flames licking the pot
that held the soup waiting
to feed
the family blooming in your belly
he makes you wife and mother
but you wait for the day
when again you can
be wild
feeling the soil beneath your feet
the black earth that bore you
to the mountains that cradled you
you will make streams from your cheeks
until you make spring come home
and the flowers blossom around you
to crown you queen and no man
will ever take you again
———
Sold out
We burnt the rivers and bled the trees,
wondered why the sap turned black like tar
but they made it taste sweet, so we drank it like wine
made to believe if we drowned in the ambrosia
we would become gods like them too.
Why would you want to be a god?
So you could burn, rather than be the fire
to harm rather than hurt
the knife rather than the blood.
Let them throw some other body to the wood chipper
ground out to green greed to manicure artificial turf
for palaces of bubble-gum pop stars, heralded as
Venus in fur, your new false idol.
Let me be your priestess
and I’ll sing along
until I don’t even remember the lyrics
to my own song.
Fiona Hartmann is a writer living in Toronto, Canada. She is interested in creating thought-provoking fiction that creates emotional connections that transcend through the digital landscape of modernity. She was a 2025 Lucky Jefferson Poetry Prize finalist. Find her published work in Lucky Jefferson, Poetry Pause, Juste Milieu Zine and at www.fionahartmann.com
