Carol Ann Duffy — Scheherazade

Dumb was as good as dead; better to utter. Inside a bottle, a genie. Abracadabra. Words were a silver thread stitching the night. The first story I said led to the light. Fact was in black and white; fiction was colour. Inside a dragon, a jewel. Abracadabra. A magic carpet took flight, bearing a girl. The hand of a Queen shut tight over a pearl. Imagination was world; clever to chatter. Inside a she-mule, a princess. Abracadabra. A golden sword was hurled into a cloud. A dead woman unfurled out of a shroud. A fable spoken aloud kindled another. Inside a virgin, a lover. Abracadabra. Forty thieves in a crowd, bearded and bold. A lamp rubbed by a lad turning to gold. Talking lips don’t grow cold; babble and jabber. Inside a beehive, a fortune. Abracadabra. What was lost was held inside a tale. The tall stories I told utterly real. Inside a marriage, a gaol; better to vanish. Inside a mirror, an ogre; better to banish. A thousand and one tales; weeping and laughter. Only the silent fail. Abracadabra.


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