I just learned that this poem will be set to music, by composer Dale Trumbore! Yay!

Gretel

It was like waking up.
One minute she was doing as she was told,
stoking the fire so Hansel could go into the pot,
the next hearing a tiny voice inside :

Push her into the fire, it said,
Push the mother.
Push her hard as you can
into her own fire
so it will consume her.

Her hands then,
on the witch,
like they had been on the sweets
she’d won them over with,
only pushing away this time,
unlocking the cage of addiction
that held them both.

My poem "Vertical Footholds"

  This poem appeared in an exciting international web journal, called Kritya, edited by Nabina Das.

 

Vertical Footholds

 

 

Here she sits, paper in hand, citizen of this strange land,

 

 

 

 

her face, with its random bumps and splotches, this pink escarpment,

 

 

 

 

 

its rosy outcroppings, smooth cliffs, soft as cushions, where baby hands used to rappel down to the lips to receive her kisses,

 

 

 

 

 

 

this place of blue pools, surrounded by tiny black fences, this tickle of eyelash, tease of memory,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With its little cave full of chipped teeth and moist heat: her breath that came in waves and waves during labor.

 

 

 

She comes to the mirror often; has these moments that feel like sleepless nights, like mother slaps, sick children who won’t be comforted.

 

 

At times she turns the kaleidoscope. Her face is Aunt Lou’s face, her mother’s face. She sees both grandmothers at once, and the father she never really wanted to look like.

 

 

 

 

                

 

It leaves her feeling thin     and wispy as smoke from a Sunday barbecue.

 

 

But then there’s always the dream self, made of paper, the one immune to nun pinch, brother tease, boss poke., each hurt that gleams like a Chinese lantern as she strings them across the page.

 

 

 

She’ll never be without these waves that come crashing in on her from  her former lives, will she?.  They are her torment, her comfort, her pulse beat.

 

What will her newest one be like?  Fresh and green as a rainforest?   Tucked in close to the shadow of a volcano?    When death begins to stalk her,  she can take him    for a walk. Then push, and watch him fall into the magma,  waving.

 

  

Okay, so she’ll ready herself for a gradual fading. But there’ll be none of that disappearing without a trace.