Rumpelstiltskin

Brought undone by mindless glee,
by announcing himself to the universe
just a little too loudly.
Name-riddle-self —
she's tipping it out the window now
with slops the pigs will change to bacon.
In the cellar, in the tower,
he goes on singing his song of self:
too mad to be lonely,
captive of a broken spell.
A survivor of deadlocked nights,
she has become a singer herself,
spins gold back into straw
to feed the creatures who companion her.
Her hair's gold has turned to white;
in a silver net she wreathes the cradle;
no one else is there.
This is not a fairy story.
She steps through the doorway
to stroke sinews of couch grass,
touch winter air.