She always looked so dusty and dirty
that people began to call her Cinderella.
—The Brothers Grimm
I.
I married the cinder girl
not for a foot
fetish nor the slippers
she wore as we spun
the ballroom, but for the story
of her name
stretching behind her
like a wedding train.
II.
What step-sister thinks it wise
to cross the girl who lurks
on graves and sleeps
in ashes, who talks to trees
and calls birds
down from the skies?
Scattering lentils
into coal, they watched
as the soot-skinned girl
gathered the beans, popped
them into her mouth
where they would rattle
around her skull like
a grudge.
III.
Out in the garden,
the cinder girl sang
O tame little doves, little turtledoves,
and all you little birds in the sky,
come help me put
the good ones into the little pot
the bad ones into your little crop,
peck, peck, peck.
Her plumed army,
wings woven of
quill pens, descended
on her like scribes
on a song, counted beans,
made her ready
for me, the ball,
the dance, the ages.
IV.
At it again, the sisters
stepped less lightly.
To fit the slipper
the elder took a toe,
the younger sliced the heel
from the loaf of her foot.
A little birdy told me,
Roo coo coo, roo coo coo,
blood’s in the shoe:
the shoe’s too tight,
the real bride’s waiting another night.
But I had already seen
the red slosh in the sneaker,
the sloppy tide of
desperation.
V.
Enough,
The cinder girl sang.
Shake your branches, little tree.
Toss match and petrol down to me.
VI.
After the house came down
the birds ghosted in
to collect bones
from the ashes.
The good ones into the little pot
the bad ones into your little crop,
peck, peck, peck,
she sang.
A sweet thing.
VII.
What prince thinks it wise
to spurn the girl who sleeps
on graves and lurks in ashes,
who leaves a wake
of birds and bones
and carries cinders in her eyes?