Gretel, Looking Back

Crumbs jostled inside my brother’s pocket, worried

like coins rubbed down to plain metal,

a face soothed, smoothed, and then scattered.

Inside my body I knew I carried two pursefulls,

on one side, the clasp just opening, ripening,

readying to let a speck spiral down.

Beneath her rags, I could see the witch’s ribs were a birdcage,

a flutter beating at the bars like a dying bird,

still trying to get out.

From his cell, my brother held out a chicken bone

to fool he was shriveled. I felt my blood thrumming,

ribboning, then rivering.

When I pushed her headfirst into the flames,

I was the one who fattened with power. I had never

been so blood-sure, so strong.