Poison Apple

I sat in the dark
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.