If my someday-daughter,
age six, tells me
she wants to trick-or-treat
dressed like Spiderman
or a fireman, because she dreams of
stopping the bad guys
and pulling cats from trees,
I will not require royalty from her.

I will not advise her choices
by asking if she’d rather be
Belle, Ariel, or Jasmine.
I will not concern myself with
princess-aisle gossip
as the mothers in the costume shop
gawk at my daughter
waltzing over to the boys’ section.

But should she ask for a gown and tiara,
I will adorn her with sparkles and frills,
all the while reminding her
that Disney didn’t create beauty,
and glass slippers are far too fragile
for feet that were made
to take this world by storm.