Four years later, I am transformed
again—no less shocking for being expected.
From prince to beast, from husband to father.
She, oh, she is more wonderful than ever.
She laughs at that, says freckles, wrinkles,
ten pounds I just can't seem to lose. She
thinks it sweet when I respond, my sun,
my queen, my beauty. But I speak only
truth these days. It's easier.
Though there is this I do not tell her.
When I watch over the cradle, our daughter,
so perfect, I see the subtle traps ahead:
the sharpened spindle; the poisoned apple;
the thoughtless leering princes. And when
I think of what the world might offer her, my
moon, my princess, my beauty,
I savour the memory of claws.