Breadcrumbs

Recent talk of fairy tales
reminds me of my affection
for witchery, the seductive
darkness of a crow-like
laugh, black, feathered
shoulders, the boney hand
extended in offering that,
even as a child, you know
means to snatch you and
throw you into an oven
or well.

Wellsprings of virtue
in the suffering of
girls wearing lead shoes,
donkey Skins,
walking walking walking
staying one step ahead
of danger
while swallowing
metal jelly beans
or spinning
straw to gold.

Golden palaces
filled with cats
where disembodied hands
served dinner in crystal goblets
and my heroines
knew it was nutty,
figured out the riddles, or knew
to call out to
their sisters
when they
got into trouble.

Trouble followed
me in human life
when I enacted
too many
wicked sister witch
moves, my rages
over all the
straw spinning,
treadmill running
after some mythical prince
who might swoop me
out of the way
of the persistent hovering
black wings
and it
only made me lonely.

Lonely were the witches
in the woods without
their sisters.
Lonely was the maiden
walking walking walking
the mother at the window
waiting for her lost child
to return. Lonely, the
crow with the silver
key in its beak. And
the spinners of tales
and their breadcrumb
maps, those cartographers
whose lonliness
I love and I loath.