Another Immigrant Story

You carry the story with you:

the children sent by their stepmother

to the hut on hen’s feet,

the witch who would eat them

if they didn’t work fast enough.

All day long the girl spun thread

and the boy carried water in a sieve.

You recall the hungry cat in the doorway,

the hinge left unoiled, moaning on the gate.

The witch ground her iron teeth

and chased the children deep

into the woods: a place of always wanting.

You need the story’s magic

to take you through safely:

a comb that makes a river rise behind you,

a forest full of wild bears,

but then you remember

the witch does not speak this language.

The new words tangle in the loom,

slip like water through a sieve.

You turn and turn the pages

but the woods are darkening.

Not even the witch could find you now.