DRIZELLA AFTER THE BALL

i.
Here’s the old wives’ tale again:
rocks withstand the ocean’s beating because it makes them soft;
every witch only wants to be the princess.
True, I wanted the dress; I wanted the golden shoes; I wanted
the pretty prince pinned beneath me.
I wanted the wolf too, the king that dies, the heart in the box.

ii.
In summer, I kissed a boy with a pickup truck,
thought he would love me like a country song
all baby, baby and hops-fermented lips on my mouth.
Is this how it goes? Liquor, an empty room,
me atop him, atop the bed sheet, thinking—
this might make me the kind of girl who is needless.

Sorry, my mother doesn’t let me out much. Sorry, I keep
my shirt on. You say that too much my sister says
as she folds batter in on itself to ensure the soufflé is full of air.
Sorry, if you didn’t want to know that. I’ll stop talking.

iii.
Every seacoast I’ve ever been to has been craggy
with holes. But maybe that too is a process that starts
with cleaving. A microcosm of creation,
the violence of beginning before we can start
on the softening. First the scab, yellow pus
and ooze, then the taut pucker of new skin.

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Rebecca Alifimoff was raised in the Midwest but currently lives in Philadelphia. Her poetry has appeared in Souvenir, Haverthorn, Magma Poetry, and others. You can find her on twitter at @alifimoff.