Hansel and Gretel in Reverse by Dara Elerath

When the witch pulled us from the oven, we were beautiful, Hansel. Our hair turned from cinders to flaxen strands, our skin thickened, sweaters knitted themselves across our chests, wooden shoes cooled and hardened on our feet. Yet, we had to leave that house of gingerbread and licorice. We stumbled backwards through the forest, pained to see the witch’s face grow distant. Brother, do you remember? Breadcrumbs flew up to your palms like birds, they formed a loaf of sourdough round and thick as the moon. Mother, I heard you scream as we blundered blindly through night-thickets, through cracked ribs of trees. Now, in this new house, with this new family, our bodies grow smaller. Hansel, what enchantment have they wrought on us? At dinner, the woodcutter pulls blood sausage from his lips and the wife turns it into a pig. I fear she is preparing us for something. Note the delight she takes in brushing dirt onto our faces, in removing clothes from our bodies and placing them in oaken drawers. Between her legs there is the scent of something terrible, the scent of a graveyard. At night, in my dreams, I still hear the buckle of the witch’s belt clattering, that rattle of our infancy. Brother, let’s go back. I miss the cage and flame, the witch’s palms stained with ash, the way her knuckles rapped our knees as she appraised our bodies, turning them back and forth to check the fat; this, a thing that every loving mother does.

Dara Elerath received her MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The American Poetry Review, AGNI, Poet Lore, Superstition Review and elsewhere. Her critical writing has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly. She lives, writes and designs in Albuquerque, New Mexico.