Behind the Door

It was strange for her
to meet a wolf in the woods,
where the paths split
where the faggot makers
blind with sweat
cut their wood,
and the trees pitched the dark trail green.
Heavy with custards
and jars of churned butter,
the tight weave of her basket
pressed against her side.
His rancid breath
warm on her fesh,
his lurid eyes
compelled:
Beyond the hill
in the house bleached grey
past the mill
Grandmother lay.

Submission was a cold cavernous thing,
unlike the lazy gathering of walnuts
on the winding way through familiar forest,
or the wreathes of mottled flowers
soft on her neck.
Surrender was
the November wind
blowing her red cape
like a half-masted flag,
or the voice coarse and low
behind the splintered door,
small as the withered limbs of Grandmother,
sharp as her squinting, narrowed eyes.


—Eric Nelson