What no one ever tells you
is that we first met Cinderella
after she was already married.
Sure he was handsome and a prince and all,
but the honeymoon was over.
The wicked stepmother of a voice that echoed through her head
was her own,
and she cleaned and polished and cooked and folded laundry and swept
until everything sparkled
so she could kowtow to her duty and beg just one night at the ball.
Longing for romance, to dance and laugh and get dressed up
like a frosted cupcake with silver sprinkles,
delicious enough to eat.
And have someone be dazzled again
by her swaying hips and alluring bosom.
Instead she waltzes with her broom, in her dirty apron,
wearing those glass slippers,
dreaming there really was such a thing as a fairy godmother
who would understand what a husband seems to forget.