Mother Tree to Ashputtel Shawna O’Neil A basic dilemma- one little girl, two evil sisters, not mention the dead matriarch at my feet. Nosy birds weave through my tresses once thick, a girl weeps for help from ghostly realms and unnatural sources. Little girl, leave my aged skin to wither on its own, not moistened with the salty tears of a luckless child. soiled clothing hanging off your malnutrition, hate-filled sobs for injustice done by those who should act sisterly. At the ball dance to end your misery and to bring the silver bells of marriage. But first, the slipper on your delicate foot. Sisters foul the plan, cutting their own clumsy feet to fit the crystal cast. Now birds call out deception and end my misery. If little girl be happy, I am free.