ON SEEING SNOW WHITE, WHEN YOU ARE A PRINCE AND ALSO A PATHOLOGIST

A beautiful coffin, maybe, and a corpse still warm,
and when the skin bisects by scalpel there is blood,
yes, but also chunks of apple
soft and syruped in cinnamon,
no heart or lung or stomach,
just bones that crumble
when gently grazed, brown sugar spine
all molten marrow,
saccharine steam.

***

Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-three year old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is fond of glitter. She recently made her debut in Under Her Skin: A Women In Horror Poetry Collection.