Snow White

By Sylvester Wong

In a village carved from frost and stone,

they crowned me beauty, cold as throne.

My skin near-snow, a breath less white.

Too fair for mud, too prized for blight.

I only asked to run and race,

to scuff my shoes and smudge my face.

But Mother said, “No, love, not there.

You’ll bruise your cheeks and mat your hair.”

Perhaps she’s right. Dirt is for those

with skin less pale and plainer bows.

My friends were loud. I stayed indoors,

and learned to smile behind closed doors.

But I had questions. So, so many.

Books I stole or bought with pennies.

I dreamed of gears, of maps and stars,

of making things that reached so far.

“Papa, papa, can I learn more?”

He sighed and turned; his voice was sure.

“Men love the quiet. Girls who shine

are meant to wed, not cross a line.”

Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps that’s best.

Still, I wrote notes I never pressed.

One spring, I snuck into the hall,

an academy with ceilings tall.

A scholar watched me from the stacks,

but never praised my thoughts or tracks.

He said, “Your mind? It serves you none.

Men seek soft lips, not what you've done.”

I asked a question. He just sighed,

and reached to touch what I denied.

“You ask too much,” he said, bemused,

“but grace, not thought, is what men choose.”

I fled that place, my shame a spark,

and wandered till I met the dark.

A crone took pity, gave me bread,

a fire, a chair, a borrowed bed.

That winter, starving, cold, and sore,

she said, “No lords will keep you poor.

They’ll trade you pearls for what they see,

your face redeems the rest of me.”

Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps it’s fair.

I am not dumb… but I am rare.

The carriage came, but on the road,

I passed a hall that softly glowed.

Its lamps held names, its shelves held stars,

Its windows hummed with minds and charts.

Disguised in soot, I stayed inside,

and stitched myself to scholar’s pride.

I found a joy no court had shown,

to craft, to learn, to stand alone.

But soon a voice disturbed the air:

“Remove that veil. Let’s see what’s there.”

The lord had come. They held me fast.

The soot was scrubbed. My veil unmasked.

He gasped, “From dirt, such light begins!

What grace to bloom through common skin!”

Before I fled, trumpets arrived.

The King had come. His bride had died.

He’d heard of me, my name, my charm,

no mention made of dirt or harm.

He met my eyes. I dared to hope.

A queen, perhaps, with dreams elope.

He took me in. My heart took flight.

He saw me, surely, past the white.

He wed me soon. I swore to serve.

I wrote with care, with strength and verve.

But when I brought my thoughts to light,

I found him laughing deep at night.

“She writes?” they laughed. “How grim, how bleak.

Why stain such skin with scholar’s ink?”

He chuckled low. “A trophy, yes,

and twice the prize the last one was.”

They tossed my work into the fire,

my laws, my hopes, my one desire.

And as the flames consumed each page,

I felt a shift I could not cage.

My King said, smiling, “Don’t you fret.

You’re not for thought. You’re my asset.

The fairest queen this land has known.

A jewel. A wife. My flawless throne.”

The court adored my quiet grace.

They sang of hair, not paths I’d trace.

My hands grew still. My voice grew light.

They loved my glow, not what's within.

And that was it. The moment clicked.

A truth too bitter, smooth, and slick.

They never wanted all of me,

just what their eyes had come to see.

A face. A form. A living prize.

Not sleepless nights or sharpened minds.

So I leaned in. I learned my right.

I am the law. The world's delight.

Why fix their roads or tax their wine,

when every soul was already mine?

I struck a maid who spilled my tea,

she begged, I smiled, they bowed to me.

I sentenced lords who mocked my name,

then took their lands and burned their claim.

I raised the tax on mourning veils.

I banned all books with girl-led tales.

I painted dusk upon the skies,

so none would glimpse another rise.

I smiled with ease, a perfect tilt,

like porcelain trimmed in royal gilt.

A mirror came from lands far west,

where truth defies even the best.

And on a whim, with idle grace,

I asked it, staring at my face:

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

who is the fairest of them all?"

It paused. Then said, with glassy breath:

"Not you. Another. With skin as white as snow."

A girl whose smile was lauded clean,

who bore the glow of seventeen.

She shone like me, but newer, bright,

and I had passed my gilded height.

I saw my kingdom slip like thread.

So three times over, I struck dread.

I schemed. I stitched. I brewed, I lied,

but even poison’s reach had dried.

She rose. I fell. My face was marred,

a scar across the face once starred.

The court grew cold. The King grew grim;

as if I were a ghost to him.

I heard them plan the same old dance,

red coals, red shoes, a widow’s chance.

A beauty past her bloom, now cursed,

to join the fate that claimed the first.

The queen he wed for grace and face

was now just shadow, scars, disgrace.

I fled. I watched the days unfold.

Her story rose, and mine grew old.

But still, I lingered, just to see

if she would choose a path more free.

I saw her crowned in morning bloom,

the same pale skin, the same perfume.

She stepped into the room I knew,

where mirrors sleep behind the blue.

And in the mirror, breath was drawn,

her voice a tremor on the dawn.

She whispered low, then clearer still,

a hush beneath the glass gone chill,

not love, not truth, nor wisdom's call:

"Mirror, mirror… on the wall?"

And in her gaze, I saw begin

the same cold seed beneath the skin.

For beauty crowned is beauty’s fall,

and none stays fairest of them all.

By Sylvester Wong