Biancaneve
Michaela A. Gabriel
She hurries past my café window,
sleeves too long, buttons ready to burst,
an Italian Snow-White, hair slick and black.
She tucks a strand behind her ear,
eyes closed briefly against a low sun.
Even the flies stop buzzing,
a drowsy bee forgets about its stinger,
droplets of lemonade dry on my table.
Around the corner, men pause for a moment,
irritated that she didn't even smile,
that she gave them no reason
for forbidden dreams.