What they don’t tell you about being a mother
is they don’t even ask you to try on the glass slipper.
The prince looks you in the eye and asks for your
daughters. You’re dead before the story even starts.
In your heart, you’re the sister of the seven ravens,
climbing the glass mountain to save her brothers.
You’re the girl with the basket full of bread and cream,
who wandered somehow into this life.
Whether you ran from the wolf or took the path
of needles doesn’t matter: the gingerbread
is burnt, and you’re all out of poison.
Good luck finding the story in this tangle
of spindles and cauldrons and vines.
After all these years, all you can hope for
is a moment at the end of the day,
a mirror to look—silently—into.
This story is not about vanity.
It’s about staying alive.