A TALE

 

The witch plots to kill the king’s children. The witch plots to kill them all.

Cut out their little throats, my lady, and let their necks grin red.

Pluck out their little eyes, my lady, and hear them plead for light before the end.

Rip out their little tongues, my lady, and watch them feast on their own blood.

No, death is too kind, she says, secret whispers seething with hate. Death is too kind. What shall I do?

She transforms them instead – the children. Their backs turn to feathers. Their noses to beaks. Their castle becomes a lake.

They curse the night-star and wait for death.