We’ve gotten it wrong all these years, Cinderella
needed fire to be reborn, like jack pine
or birch which rushes in to claim the land after
a fresh fire. Consider this: there was never
a girl or a ball, the dancing mice and birds
were fleeing flames, the prince perhaps firefighter
or firestarter. The sisters, those that kept her
in shade, went up in smoke and Cinderella
emerged, unraveling her arms, her new growth
reaching for the sun, and by the time
those delicate lady’s slippers came back around
she’d found her grounding. There was nothing left
of the maiden tree, the fresh start now old growth
and she no longer needed anyone to tend
to her, no longer had to comb through ashes
Liz N. Clift
Liz N. Clift’s poetry has appeared in Hobart, Passages North, Rattle, The National Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Washington state.
Artwork: Sarah Ann Loreth
Website: https://www.sarahannlorethphotography.com/
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