​II.  Lupus
Modern diseases have scientific labels,
scleroderma, myositis.
Some, old names from fairy tales,
rickets, scarlet fever.  Hers was both,
science sandwiching a thirteenth-century fear.
Lupus, the wolf’s bite.
A menace to her, to women.
 Always being chased,
the hunger/desire of a predator
following two steps behind,
 waiting two steps ahead.
A random presence to keep her heart
racing, panting, looking.
Will she get eaten today?

You stand where passage falters
where answers thin
into careful language.

Nothing is denied.
Nothing is given.

Only delayed
until it resembles reason.

You call it balance.
You call it caution.
You wear it like it is clean.

Something in me turns
green
sour
nauseating
burning

a slow rising that has no language
except return
and repetition.

I measure time by it now.

You move elsewhere
rooms that close cleanly
evenings that soften
laughter that costs nothing.

But not everyone waits like this.

Not your family.
Not your daughter.
Not your mother.

They would not learn
this kind of silence
or the weight of being held
just outside relief.

Here things linger.

The body speaks
and nothing answers.
Pain repeats itself
until it becomes background.

And still you stand at the threshold
hand steady
certain

deciding
when this is enough.

Not for me.
For you.

A door never closed.
Never opened.

Crouching, kept. 
You,
stand your ground, 
- tall. 

She wore the special slippers
Brought by the handsome prince
She’s only met him at a ball
His dancing skills were mince
 
She said she wouldn’t marry him
He just was not her type
He said he’d scoured the kingdom
He mentioned all the hype
 
She looked at him and smiled
He didn’t know she knew
She hadn’t been his first choice
There was another, too
 
He’d tried for Sleeping Beauty
But the forest was too thick
So, Cinders was the next in line
The thought just made her sick
 
She told him there were others
Whose feet would fit the shoes
She knew her ugly sisters
Had cut off all their toes
 
She sent Prince Charming packing
He was a nervous wreck
Why did they call him Charming
He looked much more like Shrek

“everyone who saw her liked her”[1]

she entered the woods
and the trees rose at her sight
her bottle of wine broke
stained the dress that used to be white

because the Big Bad Wolf
                                    wears sheep's fur
he does not show his fangs
                                    he smiles

poor girl could hear words
but not the way he glared down at her
when he asked “where”
she simply gave him the answer

“Thank you, wolf” she giggled
as he walked her back home
so monsters wouldn’t catch her

she’d be eaten anyway
she might as well
choose her predator

oh how grandma loved her partner
to hear, to see, to grab her
better

when she doubted, nana said
“no girl has even been luckier”

it was so dark inside the wolf’s body
that grandma didn’t have to close her eyes
so she could never see

“if my mother tells me not to”
but when he opened her mouth
she was told to answer

“I do”​

​[1] With quotes from the original tale

“Well, we’ll find that out”[1]
thought the doctor
when she said she was
autistic
 
laid twenty mattresses
on a pea as a trick
wondering if she could
feel it
 
but she slept well
not even scarcely
never did she complain
oh had black and blue
all over her body
 
now they knew she was faking
for a real autistic girl
is hypersensitive
 
and the pea
was put in the DSM-5
“where it may still be seen
if no one has stolen it”
 
the girl remains undiagnosed
and is still masking

no one wrote a tale
about the ugly step-sister

she used to be beautiful and fair
with her heart black and ugly
but they made her ill-favored
so it would be easier to see

she mocked the princess
                     like she had been laughed at
she took away her pretty dresses
                     so pleasing, she would be a little less
“those who earned food must earn it”
                     she learned how to fight by being hit

“comb our hair, brush our shoes, and make her buckles fast”[1]
maybe she needed help, maybe she had to ask

she danced for a man
                     that wouldn’t hold her hand
fought for a place
                     where they laughed at her face
cut her toes shorter
                     to fit in a shoe never tailored for her

“there they go, there they go!
There is blood on her shoe;
The shoe is too small,
Not the right bride at all!”

she cried as she couldn’t be loved, only fall

for she was unpretty
she did not deserve romance
nor pity
only shame

​and nowhere in the original tale
does anyone remember her name​

About the author:
Charlotte Poitras is a queer neurodivergent artist-entrepreneur based in Montréal, with more than 100 publications internationally, spanning literature, theatre, visual arts, and audiovisual work. She handles mainstream culture like playdough to make it her own and defend social causes in both shocking and entertaining ways. 

In the bathroom, look in the mirror
and see my reflection. In my mind,
I see a child aged eight who spends
all day looking for the Four-Leaf clover
and blowing the biggest bubble possible.
 
In a flash, the light changes,
and you look into the magic mirror,
see a young adult twenty-eight years old.
I ask the mirror if I will have a happy life.
The mirror says “Yes, Rochelle”.
I am grown up, will I find a job?  I often see
glimpses of my eight-year-old self in the
reflection, and remember those times with pride.
 
Another moment, now the mirror is cracked.
I see a changed person struggling, unhappy,
and troubled.  Much sadness and misfortune
visible in the distorted image. 
 
At the end, I look in the mirror
shattered into many pieces.
I see the lines in my face that
show all the troubled times,
the sorrow.  Can I continue my life,
or am I ready to let it all go?

A fairytale with three wishes,
enchanting fables of dragons, elves, witches.
My story contrasts, recovering from
weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain.
 
My first wish would be strength returned. 
The magic wand waved,
made me tremble with excitement.
But instead blurted out “I want disability.”
So, my right side was still hobbled,
but at least I could park in handicapped spaces.
 
My second wish was to cure my trouble speaking.
But instead, because of aphasia babbled “I want lasagna.”
So, I still could not talk,
but at least I could eat some steamy pasta with gooey cheese.
 
My third wish was to make by brain perfect.  
But instead, jabbered “I want my brain frozen.”  
The fairy gave me an icy slushie to drink.  
So, I had a headache on a hot day, my brain fizzled,
but at least I was refreshed.
 
My three wishes failed,
so, it is back to the beginning.
Weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain.

About the author:
A native of South Detroit, Michigan, now residing in Hampstead, New Hampshire, Daniel Miltz is a seasoned freelance writer and poet whose life bridges the realms of technical precision and creative expression. With a distinguished 40-year career as a Mechanical Engineering Designer in high-level government aerospace programs, Daniel brings to his literary craft the same discipline and depth that defined his engineering pursuits.

His poetic journey spans decades and continents of thought, earning him over 1,600 accolades across various respected poetry forums, inclusion in more than 250 anthologies, and the publication of two books to date. Deeply influenced by the free-spirited, improvisational style of the Beat Generation, Daniel found his literary voice during his formative bohemian years in California—a time marked by introspection, rebellion, and a search for authenticity through words.

​Poetry, for Daniel Miltz, is not merely an artistic outlet, but a lifelong vocation—an enduring lens through which he continues to explore the intersections of memory, identity, and human experience.