Bio

 
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Sophia Vesely is 18-years-old and a class of 2020 high school graduate from St. Petersburg, Florida. She is currently taking a gap year before her matriculation to Swarthmore College in the fall of 2021. She has work published in W-Poesis, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and The Fiction Week Literary Review as well as a published poetry collection on Amazon.com entitled “The Road to Amour de Soi” that aims to empower young women through the notion of self-love.

 

The house at the end of the lane
is quite peculiar.
In the rainy wind,
the shutters rattle
like my pots and pans.
When the door opens,
it gapes wide
like the mouth of my little girl
at the doll store.
During sunny days,
the roof’s peak blocks the sun
like my mother’s parasol.

How peculiar, indeed.
But inside, rather,
is the most bizarre
predicament.
Three women live all alone.
Spinsters!
Not a man in sight;
I question how they manage
in his absence.
And they seem…
almost content with their…
situation.

The youngest is the most beautiful.
Klotho,
a hideous name for
such a pretty face.
She could surely find a husband
to care for her
if only she presented herself properly.
She thinks nothing of her unbecoming attire
and hardly ever
runs a comb through her hair!

Her older sister, however, is not
aesthetically pleasing.
Lakhesis
is what they call her.
She has an unlovely, brawny lumber.
The most calloused, muscular hands.
Resembling a man!
I fear she will forever be a spinster
unless she finds
a pair of dainty white gloves.

The eldest has many rumors to her name.
Atropos
was apparently more beautiful than Klothos
in her youth.
Yet, they say she allowed entry to any man
that came to her door, despite
it being the late hours of the night.
How insufferable!
And she bares her face in public!
She will most certainly
never find a husband
with a reputation like that.

Societal oddities,
of course.
I cannot help but stare at
these spinsters
seated by the window,
when I pass by
on my evening stroll with the baby.

They return the most shrewd,
most penetrating glare,
as if the thread in their hands
is not for some simple cloth,
but rather,
for my very creation.
As if they possess the very scissors
to alter my fate
at any moment,
to condemn me to death
suddenly.

I shudder every time,
but then I remember
no woman has that kind of power.

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