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.