I did another "revision" of "I Follow (2)" and this is what spun off of that.


Baba-Yaga



ďBaba-Yaga!Ē they scream, but she will not let them go, her breakfast, lunch and dinner. To dine on a childís flesh and bones. I prefer TV dinners, if asked. But thatís neither here nor there. Her house on chicken legs, walking through the forest like some Nightmare Coupe de Ville, smoke spilling out of the chimney with wings, perhaps, flapping on the sides. Let them go! In Hungarian folk tales they donít get away, but are eaten. When the part-chicken, part-house settles a fence surrounds it. Not a white-picket fence, thatís another fancy, but skulls on staves with candles glowing through the eye sockets. We can blame the decorator. We must. This crone, goddess, witch with an insatiable appetite. I know her well, now. As if we dined together. Me and my Banquet fried chicken, picking at the crust. Her gnawing on a meaty thigh bone. Iíve said enough. Forgive me. Itís just that on the way home, in the path, tracks from a large bird.


October 15, 2008
© Anne Westlund




Poetry by Anne Westlund The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 597 times
Written on 2008-10-16 at 07:18

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