[166 words]
Runes are scratched on gingerbread walls
in the stammering darkness. Spoon in hand,
Gretel conjures an arc of resistance
slipped from sheets and bending the light
over scoured sinks. She organizes spores
on mirrors in jagged lines that spell
Learn from the past while you can.
Antiphony hisses from burning thorns
thrown on the empty cage. Acolytes appear at dawn
licking nimble fingers and winding bandages.
The tabloids of scandal are extracted,
distilled into bitter poison, and injected
into the pale right thigh of commerce.
Self-appointed midwife, Gretel weaves straw charms,
knife readied for the linked twins twisting in the womb.
She practices projection and counterweight balanced
in the blood of emergence. Issues of ascension and power
wrestle in the afterbirth. The forest echoes with screams.
She makes limpet shell needles and black widow thread.
Perched on the sill, owls wait, listening for the summons
they will carry through the world. Gretel whispers, Come,
sisters. I will teach you to mend the slits in your wrists.
Linda Scheller is a retired educator and the author of two books of poetry, Fierce Light (FutureCycle Press, 2017) and Wind & Children (Main Street Rag, 2022). Her poetry, plays, and book reviews appear in numerous publications including Hawai’i Pacific Review, Plays, Colorado Review, and Wisconsin Review. She serves as vice president of Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center and programs for KCBP Community Radio. Her website is lindascheller.com.
