Liz Robbins

Snow White and the Seventh Sin

The queen mother ebony-haired and also dark-
headed. And so Snow White. Skin like a dropped

handkerchief, mouth like a wound. All women
possessing a talking mirror. All women when young

a virgin-winter beauty. The hunter—drawn to that
heat, fevered—pulls innards from a boar. The queen

eats violet. The heart-blind hunter scrapes clean
his knife in sugar snow. Night animals swarm

the light scent, roused. Snow White, dark-headed.
In the dwarves’ hut, swaying her broom to the tune,

beauty’s imperative. Which his how the mother
traps her: bodice strings to shrink the waist, cloisonné

combs wet with poison. The age-old beckoning red
fruit. Snow White encased in glass so she may be still

seen. Unchanged. And the prince is not a wolf as he
kisses her. But in his dream, she remains unchanged.

Liz Robbins' Play Button won the 2010 Cider Press Review Book Award, judged by Patricia Smith. Her poems can be found in the current issues of Bayou, Cimarron Review, Parthenon West, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. She's an assistant professor of creative writing at Flagler College in St. Augustine, Florida.
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