Cinderella, later
by Francine Witte
Every midnight, we’d end up
tromping the cobbled streets,
shardy old shoes and pumpkin
guts under my nails. Grab on!
he would yell, as if this time
the spell wouldn’t break. Can’t
we just buy a carriage? I would
say. But that wasn’t the point.
Truth is, he’d gotten hooked
on the magic. Adrenaline pop
of watching the footmen turn
back to mice. Some crazy
addiction to sparkle and poof.
While I just wanted the simple
things, a reedy broom, the honesty
of dust. In time, I got him
to give it up, go to bed early.
But that didn’t stop him from
sneaking out, digging my slipper
out of the trash bin, tiptoeing
past the fireplace and searching
the town for the girl I used to be.
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