Content warning:
The witch lives
in the woods and
waits for children,
they say; I got tired
of waiting, and moved
to town. I don’t know
what monster lives
in the wood and
terrifies the children,
the last one was cut
into a thousand pieces
and thrown into the sea
by yet another Jack.
I married a man, solid, plain,
no magic needed—all I did
was braid my hair and smile
and not talk much to him.
And I made a child for myself,
handsome, sweet, out of his
hair and kisses
and teeth
and blood.
He’s a proper growing child
becoming strong and bright
for all that his father’s dull and loud.
The more my son grows tall,
his father wanes;
what’s fair is fair, I say,
for his father said
he’d do anything, if he
could only see a boy child
an inheritance—
a lost tooth here,
a pricked thumb there
and never disturbing the nesting birds
in the rafters I brought inside by winter.
Some men are so desperate for a legacy
they don’t care how you give it.
Come spring my boy will be to my elbows
and his father will be in the churchyard;
there’s nothing I, or anyone
can do about the cough that’s never gone away—
he traded his breath to live to see
his only dream fulfilled.
Well he’s my son, now
mine, like the village is mine
shaped with time and worry and love.
Whatever’s in the woods—
a monster, a mad thing
a magician driven to despair
by a debt with the devil—
my boy won’t be the one
who wanders out when the mushrooms bloom.
The Host will not take my boy
for plucking strange flowers
or eating odd fruits.
He’ll know his stories, and he’ll know
the safest place for witches is right here
inside the stone walls, thank you,
selling scrumpy in the town square on Tuesdays.
Hush, darling, hush;
it will be quiet soon.
By equinox nothing will give you bad dreams anymore
soon, nobody will make you scared
or say that secrets will come out.
Soon it will be just you, me,
and the Martinmas birds
singing.