Maleficent’s Curse Revised
A spindly death at sixteen is not too bad a fate.
What’s there to lose but youth?
What’s there to fear but death?
No, better yet: let her live.
Let her live to be forty-eight.
Let her watch her hair grow gray.
Let her watch her teeth turn brown.
Let her perfect breasts droop down
to her stomach like empty purses.
Let her grow hungry when this happens,
when the prince neglects to touch her.
Let her feed her pretty mouth with cakes
and breads, and sauces made of rendered fat.
Let every time someone looks at her and wonders
what has happened be an occasion for wine,
until her belly grows and grows like a child
that’s never born. Let her legs vein and swell
like thunderheads until she wobbles as she walks.
Let her lie at night under her dusty canopy curtain,
dwelling on her lost beauty.
The Wicked Witch of the West
I’ve got a plan for world domination.
It involves flying monkeys, crystal balls.
Years of plotting and double-crossing.
I know what they say about me—
I’ve given up a lot for this dark army.
My family, relationships. It’s all meant
nothing. They wanted me to settle down.
Instead I shoved my broom between
my legs, made a habit of not washing.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to let
some overgrown little girl from Kansas
worm her way west on some simpering
skipping trek as if home was something
just waiting for you when you wanted it.