Sunday, 31 August 2025

Four Poems by Hillary Smith-Maddern

 






Queen Grimhilde Urges Snow White to Eat the Damn Apple Already 

 

You are here now,  

your youth displayed like fledgling trees  

all swaying toward adoration. 

 

Wasn’t it just yesterday  

you were flinging wet dirt  

in the garden, mud in your teeth? 

 

I almost liked you then. 

 

This apple, sweet child, is not what you think. 

 

Of course, I’ve heard what they say about me — 

wicked, jealous, old. 

 

I’m guilty of wanting your skin. 

It looks so well-rested.  

And the way you wield sex like a dagger  

without even knowing how sharp it is? Inspired — 

 

if naive. You should know:  

the world is a beautiful prison 

when you are a woman. 

Its gates are carved with compliments 

and expectations. I’ve bled on its bars, 

then been told I was too loud. 

 

If I’d had a choice, I’d have danced  

naked in an unbeautiful forest, drunk on mundanity  

 

and unremarkable joys. But instead, I got a throne, 

a crown, and a man 

whose wandering hands 

are rivalled only by his wandering thoughts. 

Every night, I practice crying at his funeral. 

So far, it’s not convincing. 

 

Darling, this is also your future: 
a life that looks like a portrait 
and feels like a coffin. 

A man who believes he’s handsome, holy, heroic — 
just because no one’s told him otherwise. 

You’ll smile until your cheeks sag, 

quilt until your mind thins. 

 

This apple? 
 

It’s an exit. 

A way to stick your teeth 
into your own choosing. 

Go on. 
 

Be the villain 
if it gets you free. 

 

 

 

Belle Writes to Her Father While Imprisoned in the Beast's Castle 

 

Ambition burns in my blood. 

I itch to name every unexplored star — 

and what is this, if not a new frontier? 

 

Things I’ve learned:  

don’t follow wolves. Don’t trust furniture,  

no matter how charming. 

 

But I won’t apologize 

for wrenching the ice 

from your hands. 

 

You belong in sunlight, 

even when petty villagers 

mistranslate witty as weird. 

 

They don’t know you. Have never  

tried. Would rather blind themselves  

and follow him. 

 

He threatened marriage.  

I chose exile. 

 

Here, I have a library 

with an endless ladder. 

 

Dishes that sing. Wardrobes 

who find me enchanting. And yes — 

 

a Beast who shreds velvet 

just to feel something. 

 

But life is incomplete  

without danger.  

 

Please — 

don’t frown.  

 

I finally know what it means  

to live.

 

 

 

An Open Letter to Gretel from Ursula 

 

We sang in underwater castles while hurricanes raged 

ships. We slithered through 

 

wreckage in pursuit of broken promises. 

Let me tell you about voice and glory: 

 

soundless bubbles, puppy love, unconvincing 

and foolish, leveraged by girls 

 

against their own power. No, home is not your wish. 

More like women written without claws for hearts, 

 

freedom from hunger, a life 

unobstructed by trees. Your wish: 

 

a father who would not suffer 

your abandonment; bread crumbs 

 

made from hand grenades. Yours is the tortured 

wish of a prisoner, eager to rusty blade her own arms 

 

if it means she can save her body. Child, 

that urge is only shadow. It is not real. 

 

Contour your shoulder blades, escape 

your bars, and keep your fire 

 

burning. We have lost so much already: 

drowned it or left it in vast forests, 

 

like the last of our best memories, 

which now only come to us as dreams. Remember, 

 

lost is just another word for begin. 

We are already everything. Let us sing. 

 

 

 

The Grandma'am Sips Her Tea; Watches the Capitol Sleep 

 

It is difficult to be alive  

and full of sharp  

edges. Alone wearing the dark 

 

lipstick. Spatula in hand. 

Polished & prepared  

for judgment.  

 

There will be no killings  

tonight. Just the drones’  

soft purr. A silence to remember 

 

what separates the savage 

and the civilized. A moment to cultivate 

a new history.  

 

Her grandson used to sing 

for joy. Now he sings for bones. 

That’s progress, isn’t it?  

 

She sniffs at the weak 

tea. Sits among her white 

roses. Luxury used to mean more.  

 

The once-adored velvet couch 

burned alive during the ration riots. 

It screamed  

 

so beautifully. 

Nothing screams anymore. 

The fires have lost all poetry.  

 

Tomorrow, the bombs will return. 

Tonight, the Capitol sleeps. 

But she does not. She stirs 

 

her tea counterclockwise.  

Someone has to  

keep the dream from shattering.











Hillary Smith-Maddern is an educator whose work explores the intersections of feminism, queerness, and rage. She is a proud cat lady and an avid collector of neglected plants. When not writing, she can be found exploring obscure topics, hiking in the mountains, or passionately critiquing the patriarchy. Her poetry has appeared in Only Poems, Rogue Agent, and The Disappointed Housewife, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts.





  

 

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