Cinderella

A pumpkin-colored limo arrives at the curb
of the black-and-white gala. Housemaid
overnight transformed to debutante
strides from the rear door to overwhelm

the party of common beauties. How
all gasp to view the delicacy of each
step in her long-gown procession to
the powerful, polished, marble floor of nobility.

There, unknown to the grand society, she twirls
and touches fingertips to those of the
ambassador, who is looking not for goodness,
but for beauty, who is believing the two

come together in one body here on earth.
The swelling, graceful energy that will
be passed on to future story-loving ears
rips apart the subdued elegance of the night.

Before the middle of the darkness, she slips
out of society’s sight, given over to a
sacred vow that only she can understand–
a transformative voice that guides her hours.

An object, much like my own body, connects
the spheres of magical and practical,
of night-time dreaminess and day-time
weariness–that sliver of land I understand.

Then a foot-hold on earth, a lost shoe, a link
to all evening romance, presides over
the public sentiment. Citizens desire
to align themselves with everlasting goodness.

Out of the cinders of hot fire gone cold
and lost, the steadfast inquiry continues,
until we arrive at the judgment that frees
us from our poverty and enslavement.

A single, white shoe may lift us
and step us toward such bliss.

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