Thick Fairytales
Imogene waits at the corner,
scraping gum off her new white shoes
pressing down the pleats on her pink dress
sipping fruit punch from a plastic champagne glass
waiting for her prince to come
Years later, Imogene stands across the street
staring at the corner with hate
wiping her black rimmed eyes
pushing back her ratty black locks
wishing for her prince to die
In her head, she remembers the fairy tales told
by uncles and mother’s friends, alone
sitting on knees, fingers twisting her hair
they loved to pat her tights and her skirts
they loved to press her down
One was so loved
she named him a prince, a king, a great white knight
Night came and she forgot the knight that came
the prince that left, the king the bent
and ruined her nightdresses
Now the anger, the shame, the pain
Imogene only wears black and blue, like a bruise
She remembers, she hates, she hurts more than pain
this is the place of knights and nightmares
this is the palace of kings and princes
Is this what fairy tales were for?
To set up small children for initiation into life
and make the world seem even stranger in the transformation
wolves and red hoods and knights with beer scented grins
like the world has become thick with fairy tales
7/16/1995
