Crazy Woman Creek

Chelsi Sutton

It would be easy
to sleep on the bank
of Crazy Woman Creek
curled next to him, crushed
cans of orange soda at our
feet and the sun lazily
sinking in the west, descending
on happily ever after –
But my name is not Griselda.
Who thought to kiss
Snow White?
Stealing her from slumber, dismissing
her dreams, some student of Hades
leaning over his own Persephone.
Love is a poison pomegranate.
The sun still has not set,
The water rushes away
from here. I want
to go, to go, to go.
The ring for my finger
he’d put through my nose,
a token of Andromeda’s
heavenly hellish chains. I’d rather
cut my own hair, weave a braided
rope, climb down the tower, stomp
the glass slipper, throw
Hades his rotten fruit and sink
to the bottom
of Crazy Woman Creek