After they were finished
they left me in the woods
and there are only trees now:
white birches owl brown grooves between
each pathway out
a passage further in
some days
I am so hungry I eat the scared things the velvet
skin the inquisitive mammalian skulls
their outraged little hearts flicker
against the roof of my mouth
pulse in my gullet sleep in my acid
floppy crops of mushrooms
tug in all my torn holes bleed
weakly when I pluck them out
and I am a hut
on tensed yellow chicken feet
an oven that yawns with bones
other days
I turn cunning snout out
the cool forest berries
splatter my rose and nipples
with their juice
let my lips grow fat
inviting
them all back in: the lost prince
the huntsman the handsome wolf
most don’t make it
and those that do
say that they were lucky
but there is no luck
there is only me now
scabbed and crowned in lichen
only I decide
Becki Hawkes is a writer, communications worker and former arts journalist from London. She has had poems published in magazines including Ink Sweat and Tears and Trouvaille Review, and short plays performed in various small theatre locations.
photo by Elisa (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 