Housewife as Rumpelstiltskin by Sara Moore Wagner

I stomp my foot into the ground,

one, two, three, and the earth breaks

open like an egg. The viscous plastic

mantle, liquid, and I shake, shake,

shake, tectonic. Because you knew my name,

because you named me, I’m torn

in two, or I tear myself

in two, as some versions say.

But haven’t I always been split

between this world and my body, between

mother and father, between

sky and the center diamond

of this tiny planet: Diastasis

Recti. At night, I dance

around a fire chanting, “you will never

know me,” and by fire, I mean

the kitchen table I clear

into the empty trashcan, by dance

I mean conform to it. I thought

I was spinning this gold to weave

something beautiful, an elaborate wing,

thin and strong as chitin, sparkling

in the summer, handspun; but here

I am, caught now, trickster now,

and with both my hands, I’ll show you

what to do.

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Sara Moore Wagner is the Cincinnati-based author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Gulf Stream, Gigantic Sequins, Stirring, Reservoir, The Wide Shore, The Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and Arsenic Lobster, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was a recent finalist for the Edna St Vincent Millay Prize. Find her at www.saramoorewagner.com.