Baba Yaga
Baba Yaga
chews bones
in her
chicken-footed hut
deep in the
forest where
the thorn bushes
bear fruit like
blood blisters
and grows
older and more bent
by the year
the bones rattle
in her cupboard
and her mind is
so sharp she
remembers who
the tiniest phalange
came from and
how good or bad
this narrow tasted
outside, the wolves
and the ghouls are
whining for offal
and Baba Yaga
tugs at the knots
in her hair with
a comb made of
wire and ravens' beaks
and listens to the
heartbeat in the walls.
Danielle Willis
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