Cinderella was never innocent,
She lusted for her stepfather,
A sizzle of heat in an otherwise
Empty barn where the cows
Watched their trilogy of sin unfold
With their sagging-bell reflections
and blind-dimmed eyes.
She was as ancient on the inside
As a bottled Jeanie in an old mason jar,
The hem of her eyes shivering cold
Until she met the prophet of her good father.
The white corsages worn across
The wrists and breasts of her stepsisters
Always seemed like thick, creamed blemishes
She could burn off with the flame-lick
Of her sinner’s tongue.
And there was a mad delight in her stepmother’s
Pitch-fork sharp eyes that lied and threw her
Into the cold bite of the cellar,
A worm, an ant, a maggot left to eat
The temple of their prowling mansion
To the ground, blast it into cinders,
A mad prophet with hair the color of flame
Meant to burn across the country night,
She’d set the stairs on fire,
Drive the glass of her lone slipper
Into each of their hearts,
Burn down the church-sin
Of that lonesome palace
And ride the new prince out of town
Like a wild horse.