How My Grandmother Became A Wolf

double double, toil and trouble...

the firelight quivers with every rumble;

the old woman's hands stir up the pot;

the air is stale with the smell of rot--

 

one grimy onion, a few green roots,

the entrails of two butchered newts,

the bone of a codfish, nibbled raw

and the claws from an ancient wolf's paw

 

a pause is made, a short breath is drawn;

the smoke curls and she lets out a yawn;

although it does not yet touch her tongue,

the fumes of the brew still fill her lungs

 

the witch lies in bed, her glasses off

from deep in her throat, she draws a cough

the virus ricochets through her frame

like a bullet piercing with sickening aim

 

"your grandmother's ill; go bring her food"

are the words told to Red Riding Hood

while miles away, deep in the trees

her grandmother's form shifts a degree--

 

her breath is raspy; her skin is coarse,

every exhale is snarly and hoarse

the little girl stares, shocked and dismayed,

her former excitement beginning to fade...

 

"but Grandmother, your ears are so big"

she reaches to feel beneath the wig

"speak up my child, i can barely hear"

she speaks, straining her now-hairy ear

 

while the child grows exceedingly scared

the old woman at the mirror stares

"medicine, darling, please fetch me some--

for a wolf it seems i have become!"

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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