CHILDHOOD IS GRIMM (August Postcard Poem 2017)

He had always wondered

about Little Red Riding Hood’s mother.

 

What kind of parent dresses a child

in a cloak reminiscent of a matador’s

invitation to danger,

yet alone hands her a picnic basket

stuffed with smells

that will draw every beast in the forest?

 

Little Red is a magnet for tragedy.

 

And what kind of mother

sends a naive child,

who easily confuses a costumed wolf

with her grandmother,

alone into the woods

to walk the gauntlet of death?

 

And the savior woodsman,

who hacks the wolf with his axe?

Does it not seem odd

that he is so close at hand?

 

He turns the page

as his daughter demands another story.

 

This one is Goldilocks.

He will never get to sleep.

 

Copyright 2017

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