Wicked by Donna Quattrone

I wonder
If you would even recognize me now,
My cruel, heart-eating Mother.
Me; this fallen princess,
Loser at slots
And maternal crap shoots.
How far from the tree
I’ve traveled.
A world of difference shimmers
In the looking glass today,
Although the high cheekbones,
Arched eyebrows,
And upward slanted lips
Are still there.
Sparkling eyes and rosy blush remain,
But now
Fine lines trace memory
And experience
I’d not trade
For the world;
For floating castles,
Or even the red side of an apple.
Sure, all the signs are there,
But this tale has taken
A different turn,
Been reshaped by time and language
And the fluid imposition
Of meaning, choice, destiny.
With a slow, contented smile
I gauge my reflection
And realize, happily,
That I am

Donna Quattrone is a previous contributor to Cabinet des Fées. She is a native of Bucks County, PA, where she plays with pencils and paint, wood things and words. Her muses often lead her down the path to an otherworld shaped by mythic fiction and fairy tale poetry, zoomorphic triskeles and knotwork that has no end.

Image: The Crystal Ball, John William Waterhouse, 1902