Beyond the crooked creaks of a village in leak

Sits an old woman cackling an old fable.

Hair perfumed up with chopsticks; mouth lipsticky and lined

With a crimson chocolate smear

And A heart-shaped rhyme on her face.

Old Woman, Old Dear,

The Poor Dame, the Raggedy Child,

Rock in your little damaged chair.

The children whisper, whisper

Creep round the old house

Straining for a glimpse of the old trout.

Old Mother Hubbard sits sinisterly, silently,

Tapping on the edge of her chair.

And the children watch, the children wait,

Bright eyes like orbs, hers like fading stars.

Old Woman looks up at last;

Smiles.

Toothless, veiny, grey,

Old.

Through a child’s cruel lens she is a visual burden;

Lined, aged, the demon of youth.

Old Mother Hubbard sings along to her magical tunes,

And though her voice is old, and quavers,

She knows every line, every smile, every tap to the beat.

And that day…she blinks, eyes down, cheeks soaked in heat.

Silly Old Woman…recite your rhymes.

A Witch, is she a Witch?

The children cry.

No! Says one.

She’s a spy in disguise.

A wretched!

A witch!

A trick!

Hansel’s Doom

And Gretel’s End!

Away with you, witch

The brazen b****.

Old Mother’s eyes crease like snakes,

The Pupils vivid as firelight, bright as the furnace

As it breathes the breath of

Ancient dragon smoke.

She rocks, shrivels, shakes,

One last time

For at last the withered woman with her painted face

Can surrender to her moans, her raspy breaths, her sighs;

And finally, she dies.