Frog Legs, a Dish Best Served Deep Fried

These are the stories my mother should have told me
when late at night she tucked me in
the big bad wolf doesn’t huff and puff
he chants, runs a yoga studio off of Melrose
blows his chakras into the wind
Beware boys in men’s clothing

Cinderella, realizing beauty was fleeting
stumbled through too many gin and tonics
at the ball, tripped over the hem of her enormous dress
humpty dumptyed down the stairs, threw up in a potted plant
lost her shoe, ran from the castle as if the sky were falling

That’s not a pea under the mattress, upon mattress
upon mattress, upon mattress stacked like seven deadly sins:
wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony
but a Remington Zig-Zag Derringer .22 Long Rifle US made
tucked away for a rainy day

Careful with your kisses, a toad is not a frog, and frogs have teeth
maxillary teeth, vomerine teeth,
hidden behind their grins to hold their prey, to grip it in place
and as they swallow
their eyes sink into their skulls as if to watch
as they contemplate their next move

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
who’s to catch me if I fall down the rabbit hole
scrabbling to find hold of the earth, fingertips raw 
if only my mother could return for one more tale
fairies that hide and seek and scatter like sunlight tossed into the air
if only one more happy ever after