Feral Princess
I am lost in the orphan’s forest,
far from the woodcutter’s hut.
I remember the crack when the bough broke
and the cradle tossed me here.
The wolf has eaten all my crumbs
and the silver swans withhold their feathers.
The fairy godmother spins and spins.
She has forgotten me at midnight, again.
I have not one slipper.
My father was a tin soldier
and my mother sold matches in the snow.
Both noble, they came to tragic ends.
I’m ragged out. I want to crawl under a spell
and sleep for a hundred years.
But am I not a maiden fair?
Where is my magic ring, my unicorn,
my destiny? The beast with three wishes
has not appeared. Or any prince.
They say that if I am good and kind,
virtue will be its own reward.
Happily ever, after a time. I want a sign—
a witchy prediction, a talking bird.
Here is a cottage with an open door,
a scent of gingerbread.
I pick up a stone. I go inside.
• • •
Marda Messick is a poet and accidental theologian living in Tallahassee, Florida on land that is the traditional territory of the Apalachee Nation. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Christian Century, Literary Mama, Vita Poetica, Delmarva Review and other publications. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.