Fendy S. Tulodo
The Virgin of Thorns
There’s a town that moved five inches left each year. It’s not on any maps anymore. They say its clock tower is ticking backward, and the mayor is three children in a coat.
In Glavenreach, the village stitched by bone,
A childless widow baked her bread with fire
That hissed the names of saints. She wore her grief
Like velvet gowns, and built a house of stone.
But love, it seems, climbs fences like a liar—
Arrives as stranger. Smiles. Then brings the thief.
He came one frostnight, barefoot in the wheat.
Mr. Pell. A wanderer with one green boot.
He said he dreamed of her, and that was all.
She laughed, then offered him some jam to eat.
That was the start. The rest grew raw and brute.
They kissed beneath the family portrait’s scrawl.
He built a stair to nowhere. She carved her name
In dough. They barely spoke, just touched and fed.
Soon townsfolk muttered, said she cursed the crops.
She didn’t care. She fed him wine and flame.
Till once she woke and found the garden dead—
Her vines cut down, her roses dropped in clops.
She searched, but Pell was gone. Only a note:
Don’t look for me. I’m under what you wrote.
_______________
Fendy S. Tulodo, from Malang, Indonesia, writes by daylight and produces moody electronic soundscapes as Nep Kid by night. He splits his life between notepads and noise—crafting stories in the quiet hours and creating music when the sun burns out. A full list of his published work can be found here: https://linktr.ee/fendytulodo
Backstory & Author’s Comments: The poem arrived on a day that wasn’t.
Between my kid’s laughter and the creak of our settling house, right after my wife’s breathing went slow. I wrote it wearing all my hats at once: dad, son, husband. Funny how those names mean you’re always holding two hot cups: one grief, one love. That’s where this lives.
Not a true story, but true hurt.
Wanted to catch how love shows up uninvited, then changes shape when you’re not looking. How we drag lost people everywhere like heavy coats. Build houses from “remember when.” How even love can go quiet but never quite leave.
Made-up town, real ache.
That place that keeps reshaping? Like family tales do after too many tellings. The widow’s stiff spine and her letting some stranger sit at her table, that’s the women I know. My mother. Strong enough to give everything, then stand there holding the empty bag.
Snuck in rhymes like hiding candy in pockets. Let it hum in your ears after reading. Finished and realized: Even broken things shine if the light hits right. Even quiet has weight.
Editor’s Comments and Image Credit: Except for the number of lines, this poem works like a Shakespearean sonnet with the rhyme scheme: abcabc defdef ghighi jj, and the unexpected closing couplet is the volta. The image was created with the input of “a stone cottage in a winter wheat field and a stairway to heaven” to an image generator (Wixel by Wix.com) is combined with the silhouette of two lovers (pngtree).