In the forest, my brother ate bread crumbs, berries,
half the witch's house before she captured us.
The walk home took two weeks. His greasy thighs
broke out in rashes, chins wobbled when he cried,
gobbled the gingerbread I'd packed for our trip.
Our second stepmother was kinder than our first,
brought us bread and mugs of milk. When I talked
about the witch I said, We got away, spared them
the oven's cast-iron clang, her breathy screams.
Game was scarce but there was enough if we
were careful. One morning our stepmother woke me
before dawn, led me to the larder: He's eaten half
of what we have. In another month we'll starve.
I sent her to the forest to help my father, fed Hansel
his breakfast outside. After he ate he fell asleep,
his head tipped back, plump throat exposed.
My fingers found the knife. In the kitchen,
I rubbed a tender flank with salt, butter, sage,
opened the oven door. I'll tell them he ran away,
that he missed the witch's sweets and stories,
and while I talk I'll dish up supper—black pudding,
potatoes, a roast as sweet as suckling pig.
©
is the author of Ordinary Mourning
