My cape, it was really dark green
and it did not come with a red hood.
I stopped wearing the red one when I was thirteen.
Mother said it prompted whistles from the wolves.
He did not call me Little Red
or ask what was in the basket.
I said to him I must go now before she is dead.
He said I will gladly build her casket.
He had a face that was painted with peat,
fresh kill slung over one shoulder.
Sister said Snag that one, he seems so sweet.
And Mother didn’t care that he was older.
And I was only a stupid kid.
My grandmother had died in her sleep.
He didn’t do it like you think he did.
He only has a penchant for sheep.
I threw the pills onto the ground, and ceased my praying.
He sang nursery rhymes along the way—
filled red and green apples in my basket, saying
These will keep you from needing those pills someday.
He came to the funeral looking clean
and shaved — a wide, sympathetic frown
spread over his pearl grey and gleaming teeth
and his gravel voice had turned to thistledown.
Girls, you beware and hear what I say:
Your red innocence surely dies.
You’ll scrub chicken blood from white shirts everyday
If your husbands look at you through yellow eyes.
And grey fingernails will nick your neck
when hands reach to pull up strands that drop
(to keep loose hair from becoming a wreck)
that dipped down into the blood, the boiling pot.
I’ve never had to skin a rabbit or swallow a pill.
He brings home apples to shine on my red cape.
His teeth and eyes glitter as he stands still
and listens for the sound of the pierce and scrape
As my strong teeth puncture the skin.
It fills him with a sense of pride
to know that cider-blood will flow within,
to know it’s his pickings that keep me alive.
He walked away from Granny’s door —
and won Mother and Sister over, sight unseen.
My garbage is filled high with apple core.
He tells me the red cape is better than the green. |