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“Read it again!” she says,
and again we do. The same
disaster predictably reenacted
night to night.  “Don’t go in!”
I want to warn them, “It’s a trap!”
But children rarely listen, and
storybook characters, never.
When they see that confectionary
cottage
their entrance is inevitable,
like the mosquito bite you swear
you will not scratch and always do,
and always make it worse.

Each decision is invariably
a rigged game. The witch
is always ravenous and grasping,
the children neglected and naïve.
Preach all you like about conversion,
about the will to good and unending grace—
you know the witch will never
lose her taste for the sweet
resilient flesh of boys.

Night after night we stumble
into the forest of our fears,
and night after night we’re duly caught.
Every morning we awake
to the same reports of mayhem and
every morning we poke forward
some narrow stick of ourselves,
hoping to get by uneaten
one more day.

But listen. Each time through
the story I’ve dropped
a small white stone. Others
have too—I’ve seen them
glowing in the moonlight,
a nightly shifting of the scene,
building a path both ragged and new.
Next time, look down. Tear your vision
from the gingerbread house.
Drop a stone.

Tell the children.

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Rev. Dr. Lynn Ungar

Unitarian Universalist Minister and Poet at Lynn Ungar

Lynn is the author of two books of poetry, Blessing the Bread and Bread and Other Miracles. In her free time she trains dogs for competition in obedience, agility and canine musical freestyle (dancing with dogs). She is also an avid singer and contra dancer. Lynn lives in the pacific northwest with her two Australian Shepherds.

Latest posts by Rev. Dr. Lynn Ungar (see all)

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