Cinderella was an artist
who cleaned out the kitty litter
every morning and every night.
She had no boyfriend
but got into trouble with the law
by texting her elderly estranged husband
for phone sex — text sex —
and stealing money from his wallet
to pay for it.
Her shoe size was 7 and a half.
For the whole time she poured out
a giant painting titled “American Bombshell”
on the floor of her basement
she dreamed of Prince Charming —
a lithe little leprechaun
the next town over
with whom she had shared
a magical moment
25 years earlier
and found she could love
no one else.
Cinderella would walk alone
the shores of her castle home
and converse sparingly with neighbours
who might have thought
she was a bit strange,
living by herself with 6 cats
in her high white house
litter-ally dripping with paint.
On one of her walks
she found a plastic Jack-o-lantern
and carried it all the way back
to put black glitter in its hollows
for eyes, nose and wild grin.
Cinderella had a Fairy Godmother
with jet black hair
who would wave her wand
of reason
and all of Cinderella’s fortitude
would emerge,
cajoled by her guardian’s
infectious laughter.
Her shoe size was 9.
Now at the end of April
there was to be a gala dance
to raise funds for the monolithic hospital
in the Western county over
but no one asked Cinderella for a date
so she decided
to just stay home
and paint another
cupboard door
with paint-shard applications
from her work titled:
“Stratospheric Universe”
blown apart
by a Christmas storm
to litter her yard
with slabs and chips
of hardened splashes
she could call her own.
Joanna Gilman Hyde 