A retelling.
That summer
That summer we were left in the woods
left behind, with just a piece of bread
to show the way
Alas, the birds ate the trail, morsel by morsel.
We did find a house
a most curious house
pretty enough to eat.
I set upon the gate, chewing the saltwater taffy
while my brother munched on the windowsill.
He said it tasted like Belgian chocolate, Godiva.
How could he know?
We were the poorest of the poor
abandoned by father and stepmother.
In that sugar high
I forgot all that,
feasting on paving stones, shingles, a bird house.
The witch, we knew she was a witch immediately
with a pointy hat, warty nose, missing teeth, crooked smile
invited us in.
My brother, Hansel, coughed up a piece of bric-a-brac
and myself, Gretel, picked nuts out of my teeth.
The witch didn't seem to mind.
She showed us the table, the chairs, the kitchen
a rather large oven.
What was to be our beds—although they looked suspiciously
like cages.
I wanted to protest, but she had already been so kind
and we had eaten so much, we both had stomach aches
and gratefully laid on the eiderdown beds
(the cage doors swung shut)
and fell asleep.
Well, there's more to the story. I can't deny it.
We were fattened up, fed sweets and treats all day long.
I can't say I didn't like that part.
Except for the fear gnawing at my bones,
growing every day—like my waistline, in my calico dress.
Hansel told me that late at night he could see Death
outside the sugared windows, sharpening his scythe.
Yes, Death was coming. It was only a matter of time....
The witch, reverted to true, in mere moments.
Her nasty side came out, and stayed out,
she gleefully told us of her plans, to roast us like pigs
with apples in our mouths, and serve us with gravy
and potatoes.
Like I said, it was a big oven.
One day she decided we were as fat and juicy
as ripe plums, ready for the picking.
She gets the oven red hot and tells me to check and see
if it's hot enough to roast small children to a crisp.
In my cleverness, I demur, what do I know of ovens,
I'm just a little girl.
Angry now the witch opens the stove door,
peers inside, yelling, "See, this is how it's done!"
Hansel puts his boot to her arse and in she goes.
We shut the door, and ignore her screams.
He fills his pockets with the witch's jewels, I do the same.
Out of the corner of my eye, Death smiles at me.
I push Hansel out of the candy house and down the lane.
We find Father in better spirits.
He welcomes us home, weeping with joy.
Stepmother has died, Death's bony fingers wrapped 'round her throat,
We are all one happy family again.
But everything has changed.
I never walk alone in the woods anymore.
The birds tell me odd things,
stories of princes and kingdoms, treasures and dragons.
But I keep to the main roads or stay
safe at home, a house whose windowsills
aren't edible, walkways merely stone.
I like it well enough.
But will not touch the stove.
July 5, 2008
© 2008 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 1117 times
Written on 2008-07-05 at 11:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Hansel and Gretel
That summer
That summer we were left in the woods
left behind, with just a piece of bread
to show the way
Alas, the birds ate the trail, morsel by morsel.
We did find a house
a most curious house
pretty enough to eat.
I set upon the gate, chewing the saltwater taffy
while my brother munched on the windowsill.
He said it tasted like Belgian chocolate, Godiva.
How could he know?
We were the poorest of the poor
abandoned by father and stepmother.
In that sugar high
I forgot all that,
feasting on paving stones, shingles, a bird house.
The witch, we knew she was a witch immediately
with a pointy hat, warty nose, missing teeth, crooked smile
invited us in.
My brother, Hansel, coughed up a piece of bric-a-brac
and myself, Gretel, picked nuts out of my teeth.
The witch didn't seem to mind.
She showed us the table, the chairs, the kitchen
a rather large oven.
What was to be our beds—although they looked suspiciously
like cages.
I wanted to protest, but she had already been so kind
and we had eaten so much, we both had stomach aches
and gratefully laid on the eiderdown beds
(the cage doors swung shut)
and fell asleep.
Well, there's more to the story. I can't deny it.
We were fattened up, fed sweets and treats all day long.
I can't say I didn't like that part.
Except for the fear gnawing at my bones,
growing every day—like my waistline, in my calico dress.
Hansel told me that late at night he could see Death
outside the sugared windows, sharpening his scythe.
Yes, Death was coming. It was only a matter of time....
The witch, reverted to true, in mere moments.
Her nasty side came out, and stayed out,
she gleefully told us of her plans, to roast us like pigs
with apples in our mouths, and serve us with gravy
and potatoes.
Like I said, it was a big oven.
One day she decided we were as fat and juicy
as ripe plums, ready for the picking.
She gets the oven red hot and tells me to check and see
if it's hot enough to roast small children to a crisp.
In my cleverness, I demur, what do I know of ovens,
I'm just a little girl.
Angry now the witch opens the stove door,
peers inside, yelling, "See, this is how it's done!"
Hansel puts his boot to her arse and in she goes.
We shut the door, and ignore her screams.
He fills his pockets with the witch's jewels, I do the same.
Out of the corner of my eye, Death smiles at me.
I push Hansel out of the candy house and down the lane.
We find Father in better spirits.
He welcomes us home, weeping with joy.
Stepmother has died, Death's bony fingers wrapped 'round her throat,
We are all one happy family again.
But everything has changed.
I never walk alone in the woods anymore.
The birds tell me odd things,
stories of princes and kingdoms, treasures and dragons.
But I keep to the main roads or stay
safe at home, a house whose windowsills
aren't edible, walkways merely stone.
I like it well enough.
But will not touch the stove.
July 5, 2008
© 2008 Anne Westlund
Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 1117 times
Written on 2008-07-05 at 11:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Helen Warren |
|
Stan Cooper |
