after Vasilisa at the Hut of Baba Yaga by Ivan Bilibin
Before, my torch, a mouthful of engorged
lightning bugs carving radiance into the soft pink of my cheek—
how curious must a creature be to know what lies
beyond the body: lichen armoring the striped trees, pickpocket ferns
yearning for the hem of a skirt—I am the greenest
of girls walking so close to the earth, so close to the hush—my footsteps
a whisper to the wisest stone, my heartbeat forgotten
within the wind’s melodious wound. I do not fear for I am already walking
death in hand—I wield a branch anointed by a mossy skull
who speaks in coughs of stolen starlight; a home not my own roosts on
two scaled legs. Have you ever witnessed a thief so beautiful?
A fence made of chiseled bone, a window posing as an ardent, orange sun.
I run away on a pair of bare feet, I carry a heart on my tongue.