Goose Girl Coup
an alternate ending for “The Goose Girl” fairy tale in poetry
You mistake me, my new husband,
as I lay here, quivering, in silks before you,
covered only by my unbraided tresses of gold,
spilling modestly over shoulder and breast.
You mistake this silence
for cultured submission;
this demure, down-turned chin
for virtuous shyness.
But tonight, I have no concern for maidenhead,
far more interested as I am in looking
deep into the depths of your dark soul
to find no qualms over your sin.
You murderer of first wives,
whose body encased in oak cask
drips over village cobblestones
as evening covers the sanguine sun.
Your lust for diamonds over glass
led you to murder, my dear prince,
and such avarice made easy
the binding of the breeze,
the plaiting of air between fingers,
the twisting and turning of a story
so you may have me in your bed.
Oh, yes, Falada,
your words ring true.
If her mother only knew,
how she would surely rue.
