It starts innocent: What color is the hair
I hid for 20 years, first for fashion
and then as a shaytel of dark in a box
I leave on a shelf, unused
for 2 months.
I have gone from maiden
to crone in 60 days:
47 an age for putting aside artifice
for a moment, numbering fine lines
like tree rings, blaming children
for each gray hair instead of thanking them for it.
No one saves the maker of amulets
or the deliverer of curses;
I am no longer a princess needing rescue,
dosed with a darning needle
or tasting the poisoned apple
and am instead the wise woman, the crone
who has no use for glass slippers
because she dances barefoot
on the dark side of the moon.