Still Life as Cinderella

Ask me about anything and I’ll tell you the truth

because a lie is nothing but a counterfeit hyacinth

softly caressing my fingers when I touch it

yet leaving no perfume to linger till tomorrow. 

If you’re reading this and pretty pretend-flowers

are fine for your garden, maybe find another poem

since I only deal in what’s real, what steals air

from my lungs, knocks me to scabby knees again, 

where I stay to pray for grace to untangle truth

for you, explain how I always feel it’s necessary

to charm, to humor, to enchant, to enthrall all 

but never save one single souvenir for my mantle.

Even the glass slipper slipped away while I tore

through chandeliers shaking their heads and people 

swearing they’d give anything to be in my silky gown,

selling the perfect prince a shiny new fantasy-in-blue.      

I mean, do you ever wish your carriage could just be a

pumpkin again, a nourishing globe chock full of seeds

that won’t drive you to magical, glamorous anywhere, 

just lock you in safely that first minute past midnight? 

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