WHITE PLOTS OVER DISHES
My days drone on washing
Dinner plates small as saucers.
No happy ending predicted
Fissures would weaken my fingers
As dishwater bubbles its gray matter
Into wounds those storytellers
Don’t want anybody to know about.
When will my Queen roll her leaking boat
Across the dwarf moors, glistening
As if fairy tale satisfactions draped
Our vistas in Technicolor fats,
With her bounty of apples and combs?
What sick cargo to behold!
O the way we will twirl our hair
In tight black buns and break
Every chatty, gossiping mirror,
Crown each other fair,
Not caring who rules the kingdom
And whether our painted mouths
Water for the charms of a favored prince.
How we will slice the apple in seven slivers
Unnoticed as the hair of a boar pressed
To the forest floor by ambivalent hooves.
How the poison in its fragile motion
Of mortal combinations will flavor
Seven tiny dinner portions,
A somber churning of deadly combines
Like a spider silently spinning
Behind the glass eye of a doll.