She is a sensitive soul
her grandmother would tut
over her flinch, as the first leaf
of autumn dropped.
She has an old soul
her mother would gaze
as she edged from
staircase to floor.
So who knows how she came to be
on a wet wintry night a-knocking
at the Prince’s door.
Princess’s plight, she was
towelled down and placed atop
dozens of towering mattresses.
Then informed, after a rough night,
that she was to wed, barely out of bed.
Well, after sixty years with him
she doesn’t mind so much a slammed door,
she welcomes a kitchen’s clatter
and having spoke in a whisper for decades
she’s finally learnt to holler.
So they put her out
with the refuse, where all
real princesses end up.
The seagulls’ beatific screech
senile, they said,
her marbles loose as peas,
she’s lost her touch
content she rolls a cigarette
rocks herself to a crane’s groan
and into deep felt sleep.
by Becca Audra Smith
Rebecca Audra Smith has just finished a Masters in Creative Writing: Poetry. Her poems have featured in Loose Muse, Cadaverine, Now Then Manchester. Her recent project is a series of poems pretending to be Marilyn Monroe.
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