Snow White

They were seven men. People forget. Seven men with their seven minds. Not seven lazy epithets. Seven friends. Seven men with their male desires, trivialised by their size. Seven men hiding in the forest from glaring

eyes. Seven sons. Seven workers for a living. Seven quarriers of treasure prized by the type that would serve my liver and lungs fresh from my still-bleeding body. The type that would eat them in front of a cursed mirror, asking

a fatuous question. Seven men sheltered me. Seven men asked for nothing more than some cleaning, some meals on the table, strictly no offal. We were all grateful. Seven men saved me three times over. Seven men mourned me in ways known

and unknowable. After my resurrection, as I flew from the forest, the grief of seven men began anew. What was I to them? Woman, Kin, Mother, Hope, Martyr, Servant, Sister? Let’s not. They were seven men. Seven men with their heavy picks and their seven ineffable

souls.

Katie Jenkins lives in Gloucestershire, England. She has poetry in print with Everyman’s Library in their Pocket Poets series and Acid Bath Publishing in their Wage Slaves anthology. She has poems online or forthcoming with Floodlight Editions, Twist in Time and Sonic Boom. Her travel writing about diving with sharks in Fiji has featured in the UK’s Guardian newspaper. She has a creative writing diploma with distinction from Oxford University. Find her on Twitter @liljenko