‘Snow White Turns 39’
— Nix Thérèse
I love poetic re-imaginings of fairytales. They have such a capacity to lean into the cracks and chip at the idea that “happily ever after” is really the end of any story. ‘Snow White Turns 39’ gives us an alternate vision of our heroine, highlighting just how much she’s been traumatized. When we open with “I’m planning how to break a talking mirror: / hammer and earplugs”, we’re immediately drawn into how unique her struggle is: the mirror is a constant stream of judgment. Because bathrooms are a pretty intimate space where we can show our worst selves before primping into something new, the mirror’s comments are a complete breach of privacy in an otherwise quiet space. What if the room isn’t soundproof and those critiques spill out into other parts of the castle? Of course this would make Snow paranoid of others’ watching and hearing, a feeling that has colored her whole life.
Snow then fantasizes about the mirror's absence: “No more clipping recipes for sautéed heart / of virgin I can tell you that, / or sending milkmaids out to feed the wolves.” Look y’all, there's a lot of work that goes into being this devious and self-absorbed. It’s not just one recipe or one meal brought out by the milkmaid… She’s got these tasks on rinse cycle, to the point that it's a casual to-do list! That’s more than slightly horrifying. She’s all but been reincarnated as the evil queen, which makes the mirror not just an object to be possessed, but a overbearing power. What’s also striking? Snow is ONLY thirty-nine, which by general life standards, is still well under the halfway point. If she’s having such intense feelings of displeasure re: her appearance and life standing now, that feeling will only escalate as time goes on.
With intense feeling comes intense reaction, but luckily, Snow recognizes that this is not the life she wants to lead: “My husband found me under glass. How I miss the woodsman.” This draws a parallel between her glass coffin and the glass of the mirror. She knows keeping the mirror is a second death, because in both cases, she’s being judged by outside forces—the voice in the mirror, the prince, anyone who glances through the coffin to see her. Her beauty has always been tied to others’ standards, not just her own. Her urge to smash the mirror is a call to look beyond her exterior. Funnily enough, the woodsman is the only person who’s shown her mercy. He was actually generous in his seeing, namely in acknowledging her suffering but not adding to it. Imagine only coming into close contact with people and objects who act as if demeaning you is appropriate, when it’s really the biggest thorn in your side. In a space where it seems that everyone has been given agency over Snow’s life but her, we have to cheer for the woman who’s finally ready to break.
The Poets’ Grimm