Feminist Bedtime Stories, #1

I.

Hans Christian Anderson got it wrong:
the Little Match Girl did not die
of exposure. No—
she arranged what remained of her inventory
strategic as an arsonist,
wore taps on her shoes to keep time
clackclackclack jigging on cobblestones
whilst around her, flames bright as a party dress,
centre-ville dissolving into hot ash and smoke
as the match girl laughed and thumped
her feet, awkward and resplendent,
and, finally, at the last,
warm.

~ ~ ~

ruby-slippers

Dear friends and readers,

One more day, and (all gods willing) the story of the United States as a nation presided over by an unbroken line of men will be, at long last, rewritten. That feels…pretty significant. Significant enough to be what I’m writing about today, FOR SURE.

But.

I can’t.

I want this whole dumpster fire of an election season over so damn bad, y’all, that the mere thought of writing about politics just.one.more.time. threatens to send me whimpering back to my bed. So I’m rewriting some Other Stories instead.

Hope you enjoyed this first one! Stayed tuned for the rest of the three-part series soon… [UPDATE: #2 and #3]

sincerely,
alice “I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR” isak


[Image credit: Ruby Slippers [cropped] by Joel Kramer, licensed under (CC BY 2.0)]

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