The Washerwoman's Daughter

barefoot, down by the river,
hauling water, rinsing clothes,
she's kissed a thousand frogs

moist, faintly slimy,
their eyes bulging at her
as she lifts them

but not one prince among them,
and why hope for a prince
in the first place?

to live among foreigners
and have someone else
wash her clothes for her?

only there is something
she wants, something that
swells in her like sadness

when she sees her mother,
red-handed, wrinkled,
still kissing frogs.

(First published in Star*Line)