She walks at the hour
when light breaks and bleeds —
neither sun nor star,
but the hush between.

Thorns braid her crown.
Moth-wings rest on her wrists.
She carries twilight
like an heirloom blade.

Humans call her faerie
because they fear
what does not ask permission
to be sacred.

She blesses the meek.
She ruins the cruel.
She dances only
for those who know sorrow
as a season,
not a sentence.

Kneel if you must —
but she prefers those
who stand trembling
and still stay.

[Gabrielle Munslow is a poet from West Sussex, UK, whose work braids myth, memory, and the fierce resilience of women. Her writing has appeared in Neon Origami, Bristol Noir, The Ekphrastic Review, Half and One, The Lake, and Sky Island Journal, with new pieces forthcoming in Flash Phantoms and Strange Horizons.]