Throwing Glass Slippers


She felt like Cinderella, before the evening

gown glittered or fairy godmother granted wishes.

Not the Cinderella with horse drawn carriage. Before

any tiara wrapped around that hard, hair sprayed up-do.

She felt like Cinderella, wrapped in rags

mopping grimy floors. Days spent on dreams, wishes.

Cinderelly, whom mice called mother. Slopping

soapy suds and handkerchief held hair.

The princess in house slippers. Worn, seams plucking

peaking bare toes. One true love

of laundry, heaping.


Canto XXIV


I took the last line of Dante’s Inferno, canto XXIV, line 151 “And I have told you this to make you grieve” and inserted it into the last line of my own poetic verse.

The scorching weld that burns

two souls together. Meant to be. Love,

knocking at an enormously shallow door.

It’s dark and echoes the cold, stone

hallways of my heart. The loneliest soul

when his name is called. Years pass,

and I have told you this to make you grieve.