Some nights I am the slice
of white wedding cake
untouched on the feast table,
unable to attract an open mouth.

Some nights I cast
curses onto the boy.

If I light a single taper,
I find myself in smoke
inside the hallway mirror,
ready to counsel stepmothers.

And I am the apple too,
seedless and infused
with bitter poison. I am
the teeth that bite down.

Some nights I strain
like the white horse
who waits for a quest,
my body angled
as a wedding invitation.

My hair is a banner flying.
My open throat holds
every trumpet, welcomes
all visitors. And I am

the glittering blue mote
around this household. I keep
intruders out. I drown them.

When my men are fast
asleep, I hold torches,
watch over their doors
where I know they are

already dreaming
of the flint sparks
inside my body,

how my hips will get us
to the end of the story
where we’ll find
the future kings I said
I’d make them.