Life made her into the cogs of the watermill
Taking away her budding qualities
And opening her to her mother’s manipulations

She has enough humanity to hesitate
at the brutality of losing her toes.

Just do it before he leaves

Her core is gone
like a rotted tree

with its oranges poked
for their goodness and acridness.

You won’t need them once you’re Queen

She takes the bloody steps in her best dress
with her mother in her ears,

Do better than your sister, and smile

Before the doves start squawking.