Night Stories
When the house settles
and the floorboards breathe,
you can hear a rapping
on the furnace pipes,
a tapping in code
that must mean something.
If only you could listen,
but grandmother lies
in the stomach
of the wolf--
a bonnet tilted
over one ear,
and his eyes
are empty
dinner plates,
his mouth
a row of knives,
to slice the skin
from little girls,
who leave
the forest path.
Time is skipping
faster now.
The moon oscillates
between hunger
and gluttony,
as your feet take root,
and you can’t help
but comment on grandmother’s
open mouth.
When the house settles
and the floorboards breathe,
you can hear a rapping
on the furnace pipes,
a tapping in code
that must mean something.
If only you could listen,
but grandmother lies
in the stomach
of the wolf--
a bonnet tilted
over one ear,
and his eyes
are empty
dinner plates,
his mouth
a row of knives,
to slice the skin
from little girls,
who leave
the forest path.
Time is skipping
faster now.
The moon oscillates
between hunger
and gluttony,
as your feet take root,
and you can’t help
but comment on grandmother’s
open mouth.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson