Little Red Riding Hood

[masterofmidgets]

I like how this poem turned out, although I think I am quickly becoming That Person in your writing class who always writes the depressing/violent/creepy poems, which to be honest is a little baffling to me. I am not That Person! I don't even own any eyeliner, and I've never learned how to play the guitar! Obviously I am going to have to write some poems about trees and odes to my fuzzy socks to even things out. But this was fun for experimenting with using more figurative language (metaphors and I tend to approach each other cautiously, without making too much eye contact) and trying to keep the subject and the details of the poem sufficiently ambiguous.

what big teeth you have

Trudging back to the village at dusk,
my sled heaped with wood, hunched
against the pull of the rope, I came upon the cabin
where the old woman lived.
The crooked-tooth door gaped open, the wind
Blew flurries of last week’s sugared-over snow into the darkness,
There was no smoke curling from the chimney.
Inside it was too cold to smell of anything but ice.
From the doorstep, in the failing light,
I could see the clotted and blackening streaks
on the packed-earth floor, and the drying strips of meat,
and the footprints.

The girl’s cloak lay on the bed like a severed wing,
Torn to tatters. I picked it up; I had seen her
In the morning, when I was sharpening my axe,
Flitting between the trees and chirping to herself
On the way to the old woman’s house.
It was a darker red now, and ugly.
I took it with me, cradling it in my hands
As gently as a fallen thrush,
As if I could protect her now.
I took her red cloak with me to the village,
And nailed it to the church’s wooden door
And barred my door against the wolves.