It's been seasons since her last fall, but winter's mere memories away.
Shreds of glass make up the parquet where Cinderella's slipper shattered.
Most fairytales end this way.
Once the godmother leaves and the morning comes, Prince Charming is no better than the Beast,
and at least the Beast wants more than two hours past the stroke of midnight
followed by breakfast in bed.
Sometimes, it's a relief when the clock tolls twelve. It gives a girl ground
when she has her rags back.
The diamond tiara was no thorny crown, and of course Beauty missed her old life,
but it's simpler to pretend when you look the part.
Delicate threads spin themselves.
Around her neck like a string of blood-red pearls clings
the finest gossamer noose gold can buy.
She bites his lips, an old shopkeeper's habit of testing the coin.
When he bends easily, only tin painted yellow,
she looks away and doesn't say a word, slipping the fake into her purse
as though it were genuine.
She'll never be able to spend him and she