a girl runs through a forest

carrying a brother, a basket, a burning skull



the path littered with bones, wishes,

bread crumbs, and somewhere waits



the witch, the wolf, the lover

(everyone knows these things come in threes)



the bread is heavy, the brother crumbles

or turns into a golden bird



the trees bend towards red—

the hood, the blood, the pomegranate seeds



a grandmother dies, or lives, or curses

seven generations



the wolf nurses pups in her den

in the forest there is no witch, no wolf



only a mirror.

About the author:

Susan Page Deutsch (she/they) is a writer based in Norfolk, Virginia, where she also teaches youth classes for The Muse Writers Center.

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash