The Prince to Snow White

by Polly Peterson

Did you think that I found you

by chance, Maiden?

Did you believe

I was drawn to your crystal casket,

like a hummingbird to its nectar,

by the allure of ruby lips,

the gaze of azure eyes?

The mirror told your mother,

at forty,

what she already knew,

not in her heart,

but in her spleen.

"Take her into the forest,"

she commanded,

"for her heartbeat plays

the music of my mortality,

and must be stopped."

Still the mirror

told her true.

She was the fading flower —

a fresh blossom

opened in you.

Ragged she came,

and gnarled and stooped,

hoping by this guise

to fool fate,

to quell the crone within.

Her apple froze you fast —

a talisman

to keep time

from touching her.

Alas, to no avail.

You shall have

your mother's love.

Indeed, you have it now,

even as you

usurp her place.

Did you think that I found you

by chance, Maiden?

You are beautiful, sublime,

yet not so lovely

as our daughter will be:

your mother's daughter's child —

her immortality.