C. Baert Miller

Bad Apple

He tells our mutuals I fed him a bad apple
as if I am some witch of the wood—but what else should I expect
from someone who breathes his own poison breaths, inhaling
each noxious exhale after every lie—I want him to choke.

Men: heroes of stories—I never saw myself in the witch’s role,
always a princess. Always the young lady waiting for love’s first sigh
—medicinal vapor, aphrodisiac to true love’s kiss.
I am not so young anymore.

I hiss. He blames. Arguments are becoming of us—
are we even an us? Just two unfortunate actors playing some part
in some unnamed play: as if some college student had plagiarized
the Brothers Grimm and only wrote of how blood falls on snow.

Maybe it’s the aftertaste of my flesh on his breath that’s the poison,
or maybe I just don’t understand fairy tales anymore.

C. Baert Miller lives in Eastern Washington with her cat and chihuahua, where she works as a copyeditor and page designer at The Spokesman-Review. She received her BA in English and art with a minor in ancient, medieval and early modern studies from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. In May 2023, she graduated with an MFA in creative writing with a concentration in poetry from the University of New Orleans.