She’s never believed in much—
not the price she pays
for sodas from the corner store
nor the stories her parents preach
to her every night before bed.
They tell her of women
who walk with wolves,
can never go home again,
who curl up in forests, sleep
in dirt, wonder about the scent
of their mother’s hair—
water celery—if they really
remember it right.
They tell her of old witches
in wild woods who build their homes
with sugar and darkness.
Every door is a reminder
that you shouldn’t have stayed
out so late, gone down that unlit
path, among the purple coneflowers.
She believes less in punishment
and more in rightful
vengeance, in the scratch,
the hiss, the pounce like spells
through the dark,
dancing until
she lands.
