Feast of the Elf King

Alex Graffeo


I am hungry.
I search for his table,
my name discord on the wind
while night maidens guard golden apples,
their sweet scent burning
my nose as my throat
craves tart cherries and
his sticky sweet mouth

I am hungry.
I gorge myself. Milk, honey, and pears
offered under the horned moon,
the noble rot of his grapes
leaving me dry, pining
to swallow his pearl
onions and birth my own
dark prince.

I am hungry.
For his (lady) fingers dipped
in jam from rowanberries,
his divinity swallowing
me whole while my throat caught
on peach pits and bare bones.
Sometimes he is a feast,
mostly he is famine.

I am hungry.
For flesh from his wild boar
and wine from his cherry mouth,
for pomegranates that taste of gravelight
and lamb spiced with moondust.
My dress is stained red from his sharp
gaze. I am spinning, I am lost,
I am hungry.






Alex Graffeo’s poetry and short stories have been featured in The American Journal of Poetry, Last Leaves Magazine, Collective Realms, Illumen, and OyeDrum Magazine. She writes and lives in New York. You can find her on Twitter at @alexfallsdown.