Those golden slippers will not fit you
after your feet callus from gravel.
Your amulet to save you from witches
was hasty; it nips at your dreams
like papercuts, now that you’ve
started hoarding white sage, eyebright,
and rosemary. And all the men
on white horses that pass through this town
are looking for women sleepier than you,
who prefer their kisses stolen, not given,
who wake only to promises less pedestrian
than a dog’s warm lick and the thought
of sausages on a cast-iron pan.
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