Conversation with the

Stepmother, at the Wedding

by Jeannine Hall Gailey

I did the best that I could

and she turned out okay, didn't she?

It could have been a lot worse.

These shoes are killing me.

You don't understand how hard it was,

those greasy children

with their lentils, their field mice,

always playing with fire,

their clinging fingers wrapped

around locks of their mother's hair

or magic tree branches,

their grubby fists full of crumbs.

Hard to shake them loose

no matter how I comb their hair,

how many apples I feed them,

how many times I send them into the woods.

They never blame their father

who brought me here, to a house

full of strangers, where even the servants

worship images of the dead.

I say, make room for the new.