Baba Yaga

The rising cloud pulls you upwards.
The orphan, drowned, pulls you backwards,
your bony legs bent, twists your footfalls,
and bleeds your words, wakes your woes,
eats your birds, and buries your toes.

Once a maiden, twice a bride,
thrice a widow, desert dried.
Like the lizard that swims in the sea,
your salty sneezes shake the trees.

The icy breeze smells like Russians;
it gives a wheeze, pulls the slush in
and whines like a wolf, sounds like nothing
you've ever heard, howls in waves,
sirens, curdled—it sings of your ways.

Once a grapefruit, twice the tree,
thrice a milky mystery.
Like the chimney from under the earth,
your anger is an island's birth.

In the dripping tomb, you stir a stew
that spills in starry strands.
In the balmy room, it's only you
and your six hands.

They bring you crowns, only to leave you.
The brave boys bow when they need you,
but never to stay. Still, they heed you
and feed your spells, steal your sieves,
mask your smells with lavender leaves.

Once the jury, twice the accused,
thrice the judge in scarlet hues.
Like the death plague that comes to the ball,
your dance can bring a kingdom's fall.

In the dripping tomb, you stir a stew
that spills in starry strands.
In the balmy room, it's only you
and your six hands.