Joanna Gilman Hyde

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.