he had no hair upon his chin.

He’s still a little boy, elsewise

noble, but so very short, weak,

like the body he’s trapped inside,

small, like the mind he depends on.

Of one prince’s kiss say nothing more

of it, Mommy. The kiss is dead,

for he never sensed the wetness

on both sides of two moistened lips.

What did I want to talk about?

Ah, of sin, that stands on its knees,

before you, of the dear sinner.

Queen:

No, that is wrong. You yourself tell

fairy-tale lies. Surely it

says that I am an evil queen,

that I dispatched the Hunter to you,

and gave you the apple to eat.

Now answer me straight about this.

Your begging me for forgiveness

is just a joke, isn’t that right?

All of this gesture and technique

is rehearsed, a script cleverly

practiced by you yourself. You have,

as it turns out, only made me

suspicious. What are you doing now?

Snow White:

Looking upon your kind, soft hand,

seeing its beauty wondrously

waking in a child a feeling

almost totally extinguished.

No, you are no sinner at all:

where would you get this idea?

Neither am I. We’re still spotless

of all guilt, immaculately

watching an immaculate sky

being as mild as it has been here.

Once we did evil to ourselves.

But that is far too long ago

to remember. Now part for me,

I beg you, those dear lips of yours.

Tell me something very happy.

Queen:

I sent you off to die sparing

not one kiss or caress on him,

who followed you like a wild beast,

hunting you through woods and fields

until you fell down to the ground.

Snow White:

Ah, yes, I know the story well,

about the apple, the coffin.

Be so kind as to tell me more.

Why does nothing else come to mind?

Must you hang on to these details?

Must you forever draw on them?

Queen:

With kisses, kisses I fired on

the Hunter, my bloodthirsty man.

O, how the kisses came raining

like drops of dew upon that face

swearing faith to me, harm to you.

Snow White:

Forget about it, my dear Queen.

I beg you think no more of it.

Do not roll your big eyes like that.

Why do you shake? You’ve only

been good to me all of your life,

for which I’m utterly grateful.

If love knew of a better word,

then it might speak less awkwardly.

Love is boundless for that reason.

It knows to say nothing when it’s

wholly enrapt in your being.

Hate me so that I can but love

more childlike, more wholeheartedly

and lovingly by myself,

for no other reason than that

love is sweet and ambrosial

to one who humbly offers it.

Don’t you hate me?

Queen:

I hate myself much more than you.

Once I did hate you, begrudging

your beauty despite the whole world,

for the whole world sang your praises,

gave you homage while I, the Queen,