Gretel: A Sestina

By Edward C. Lynskey

In the ruddy and chilly dawn, Hansel
awoke to stir the embers to a hot fire,
d both panes to gaze at the forest
where the woodcutter went when the sun
burnt off soupy fogs, when bogey moon
hid black magic brewed by an odd witch.

Trees shed macabre fruit of the witch,
umber figs glistering to lure Hansel
who fell for them under her sly moon.
At night past our loft, we caught a fire,
far and away, like a girasol the sun
had buried in the green gloom of forest.

"No harm shall smite us in the forest,"
my brother promised, but I knew a witch
who eats waifs flew the instant the sun
was lost -- as were we. "Oh, Hansel!"
As I tumbled weeping, he struck a fire,
and, in a horrid pall, up rose the moon.

Dripping a sleuth of beams, a full moon
cut us a bright footfall through forest,
touching the tops of our shoes with fire.
"Come, eat my gingerbread," cooed the witch.
Her toothsome doughboys hexed poor Hansel,
but I pretended to chew. Where was the sun?


I remembered our past plays in the sun,
of the woodcutter's grail how an evil moon
lured children down dark paths Hansel
chased with reckless joy into the forest.
While he slumbered, I spied as the witch
built blazes, and it was a cooking fire.


I feigned sleep, clapping an orb on fire,
sugar panes glazed shut, never emitting sun.
Stropping fangs, up the chimney the witch
flew on her besom to torch the hectic moon.
She leaned near to hiss, "Come, the forest
flames nigh hot," as we turned on Hansel.


I carol with the witch before the rising sun;
the oven fire glows, and we enter the forest,
the moon boiling to stew Hansel's vain bones.