Veronica Schanoes

hubo una vez una chica sin pies
así que no podía andar
y no podía bailar
pero aún sentía dolor
en sus pies fantasmas
que no estaban
no pensó

No responder

es mejor que una respuesta tonta.

para ponerte, para que las criaturas del bosque cuyos ojos
parpadean desde la maleza sepan
que mi amor te proteje.

La corona que hace rey al rey,
reina a la reina,
la manzana que envenena a la chica sensible,
el carruaje de calabaza, la escoba que vuela;
dime la fuente de tales suministros mágicos.

¿Dónde está la moraleja?
No todos los cuchillos son para
apuñalar un vientre expuesto.
Roca monta encima de roca
y solo forma una costa.

Boys don’t want to be princes.
Boys want to be shepherds who slay dragons,
maybe someone gives you half a kingdom and a princess,
but that’s just what comes of being a shepherd boy
and slaying a dragon. Or a giant. And you don’t really
even have to be a shepherd. Just not a prince.

I knew all along
what I would find
when I opened that door.
There was not one surprise
in that chamber of horrors.

My sisters returned

The usual gifts: Beauty. Wit. A lovely voice.

Goodness (of course). Good taste (that was Martha,

Wincing at the jewelled cups, the queen’s gown).

Grace. Patience. An ear for music. Dexterity

(To help her learn Princessly skills, as sewing

Dancing, playing the lute). Amiability.

Intelligence.

“Sweet child, I give your life to you

To lead as you will, to go or stay, to use

My sisters’ gifts, or let them be. Rule

In your own right, consortless and free.

If you choose.”

As a good fairy, I did what I could; I gave her

A hundred years’ sleep, a hedge of briars, a spell

That would sort her suitors, test them for grace,

For patience, for wit and intelligence and good taste,

For amiability and a lovely voice.

A man who would be her mate,

Not her master.