Poison Apple
studying bones.
They contain billions of little channels you know —
canaliculi.
Handing treats to countless
little princess-witches and spidermen,
the spidey sense in the back of my skull
tingled a touch too late.
A dark shadow
in the shape of a man
was striding across the lawn.
The primal fear triggered —
an unpleasant adaptation
to fight, flee, freeze, or fawn
in hopes that we would not be forced.
Tearing of tissues the first concern
but more concerning —
the future burden of bearing
unwanted births,
endless pleading mouths.
But as the form drew closer,
I swear I saw colors swirl around him
as the dimensions of the universe
Frameshifted in the dark.
And it was warmth and comfort and friend —
my husband returned!
That night,
I dreamt of poisonous ex-lovers
holding me close in giant warm arms
yet still distant somehow.
Walking in the gray gloaming of the morning,
a golden familiar by my side,
a bruised purple plum
oozes, hiccups, and writhes
behind my sternum.
They used to speak
in worried tones
about my shameful "emotional instability"
and yet,
lick their chops —
Pater Famil
at the supper,
at the spread.
I wonder if Snow White
was actually the poison apple?
Her stepmom —
not so bad after all —
only a little nonconformist —
defiantly wearing black turtle necks,
instead of the floofy frills,
pulling little Snowy aside one day,
letting her in on a little secret,
“Hey kid…..
you are your own,
Charming or no.”
After the kisses,
the countless princes
falling to her sides.
Her peaceful woodland bed —
her flower power bower —
rimmed and limned
with piles of their dried bones.
She slumbers on peacefully,
taking but a nap,
the slightest of smirks
on the corners
of those big red lips.
As those little songbirds chirrup,
and sing her song,
loyal little dwarf men
hum along.
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