Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in The Literary Nest, Rune Bear, Event Horizon Magazine, Another Way Round, Ariel Chart, Bindweed Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Peacock Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. Two of her poems were published in the University of Southern Indiana’s 50th anniversary anthology, Time Present, Time Past. She was a finalist in Poetry Matters’ contest for the Spring Robinson/Mahogany Red Literary Prize.
Cinderella 2018
She slides a plastic bag over the dress
worn to the ball when she won the prince.
The kids play with it now, pretend they sweep
ash from floors, sing a song with doves,
wait for fairy god-mother to tap her wand.
They have torn the lace and stained the satin,
shattered the glass slippers long ago. Cindy,
as she prefers to be called, rakes her face
across her sleeve. She has nowhere to go or to be.
Her hubby king out all day and many of his nights,
tending his crop of illustrious kingdom.
Her sisters now sweep and weep in her employ.
She hears them plot against her. They want
her husband and her life. Some days she wants
to let them have it and run into the arms
of the sea.
Little Red Riding Hood 2018
She sits on a stump, tosses her backpack
onto the ground. Her grandmother made
this red velvet cape, not knowing her favorite
is actually blue. Though alliteration in her story title
speaks to her sense of poetic pride.
She unzips the bag, pushes away Plath, Sexton, and dreams.
Some think she’s living a high fine life, immortalized
for cobwebs of children to come. But she had to don
this red velvet cape, pull its hood snug over orange curled locks,
escape bright flashes from eager paparazzi.
She pulls out her tablet to rewrite her story. Her cape will match
the shade of her heart, Plath’s heart, Sexton’s heart.
Her grandmother will drive a brand new Corvette,
won’t be stuck in the woods waiting for her
to bring cakes and wine. Oh, yes, a wolf will appear,
the uncle who molested her.
Goldilocks 2018
She tap, tap, taps on the door,
leans against the frame, pulls off
a second-hand Skecher, turns it,
dumps a pebble, arches to relieve pain
that wails like an infant. Her day
spent scouring for berries and bending
to scoop hands for a drink from the creek.
Her stomach grumbles the same old tune
as a window pane shows bags
alive under her eyes. No one comes
to the door. She knows who lives here.
Papa Bear and Baby Bear play ball
in the yard until Mama Bear calls them in.
Goldilocks knows they stashed a key
under the mat that spells Welcome
in letters large enough to mean it.
Inside, the smell of roast catches her
in a net, a pot filled with mac and cheese,
pulls her straight into a land
where heroes and villains
eat straight from pans.
She’ll beg to sleep here, hope Papa Bear’s heart
is not too hard, that Mama Bear can soften him
or Baby Bear will say it’s the right thing to do.
She’ll tell them her time in the woods
made her late for a bed at the shelter.