Cendrillon Hurls Her Last Bean at the Y

Any woman ought to be wood-wise enough not

to go running through the forests at night,

without even a godmother, taking a stab

at being a prince. After all, there are wolves,

diminished men (with idiot nicknames and loads

of laundry, whistling), ugly hats. But what Google

map, pinless sister, to believe in when home is hell.

You anticipated firebirds – at least a fairy of lilac

with a Subaru drawn by dragons. At very least

a cat with a grin and wisecracks, a feather

in his cap, the ear of the king – inviting tea.

How to resist going off into the forest deep

when there’s slapping, tell tales, yelling? You fancied

you’d land at the pearly palace, prinking – Snow

White did – waving a hanky at the headless, gargling

diamonds, the goose uncooked. A ball. Your steps

wearing iron boots – ducked in the pond, sucking

on frogs, or bloody with envy in a courtyard tub.

But rub-a-dub-dub your eyes and you’re in a dining hall

with a wino, sauerkraut, all rings going green. Stars

popping above a Christmas tree, all matches burning out.