Mrs. Snow White

She missed the dwarfs, those stunted penises,
For whom she perfected each domestic
Art, whistling while she stirred the soup, waltzing
The broom round the floor once they’d left for work.
Now servants ghost on tiptoe past her room.
Why had she bitten that old crone’s apple
Only to awaken flushed and lonely,
To bid good-bye to her seven shadows,
Then hasten to the castle with her sole
Suitor, her thimbles, and one cold needle?
She grew paler, having swapped sleep for sex,
And though he still could be charming, her prince
Grew inattentive, except on those nights
When he thawed the snowdrift of her body
To slip into pools of balms and perfumes.
How furiously she gave herself then,
As she’d seen creatures do in their seasons,
Hoping to conceive a son, some Bashful
To cradle at her breast like a straw doll
Whose loose button eye begs thread, some Dopey
Who reeks of the lost, owl-quavering woods.