Snow White by Katie Pagano

The huntsman’s clothes soaked through,

pocket breast full of artery and aorta valve
leaves a toubling stain like the jealous rage 

of a queen who won’t let it go the way
she, the thousand times more fair, lets her last breath go,

alone in fox-infested forest—
done with the in and struggle out,

the looking down to see breast exposed,
ribs snapped, gaping hole so cruel—

the children at night being told being told this story think—
practicing, she is practicing, trying to see

how long she can hold her breath,
but it’s harder than you think—

yes, she is preparing for the glass coffin,
what should never come but does—

death and snow, frost gracing morning dew,
rosy lips turning purple then blue,

and she will not be resurrected.

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Katie Pagano was born in New Jersey, grew up in New York state, and currently lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA from Chatham University and a BA from the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg. She has been previously published in 5 AM and the Pittsburgh City Paper.