The sisters in Cinderella cut free the fleshiest moments in their own feet. Fitting a slipper is half a story, and who doesn’t want to fit, really, in the wake of walking morals that name our efforts into canker. If only so much space is allotted, a ceiling on all sides to glass our soles with. I walk in clear shoes, I don’t throw stones, not at sisters or the mess of floor they left.
The sisters in Cinderella beckoned their loose former flesh into a dust pan and decided to color a landscape with these romantic leftovers. Make lopped heel a human brush. You’ve never seen devotion like the paintings they made for him with their spare bodies, the full length of the room. Body in pain, making and unmaking the world, making a cloth on the table, making a bed of ropes. Never themselves made, hung never swaying from verb to adjective. He wants them like that. Skinned ellipses of women who canvas for him. Cinderella is his name for the kitchen water that pulls him away. A watched pot never calls.
My love is an effort against glass. It splits lips to their own wet flatness. The shoe parts my ways, if it fits. I am good at chewing my need into pieces, the beauty of a bird mouth. His proposal is a dressing of my bleeding edge, a stilling flow. I love in death pumps against the coffin of another story.
We dress our rest in melted sand. He makes my sister out of whatever wind my breath hasn’t touched. He marries her instead.
Featured image credit: Jessica Lawson