It’s been six years since
I killed her, but I still stir in the night
to the screams of searing flesh, still see
her teeth, gnarled from gnawing
on girl’s bones, bent and broken
from devouring boy’s flesh. Even now,
I smell the blood on her breath,
taste the ash of the oven.

The moon brings memories
I wish I never made. Mother’s lies
as she abandoned us in the woods,
tear drop stains on callused hands
as father said his goodbyes. Brother
was lost, too busy during the walk
trying to make a compass of crumbs
as bread-filled birds circled above.
I never told him I knew the way home.

I wish I could forget, but night
after night I am haunted by the
sights of sugar-soaked window panes,
gingerbread shingles, and taffy apple
doorknobs. When darkness creeps
into my room, after the sun has gone
to sleep, it brings with it the scent of warm
ginger snaps, cooling near the candied fern.
If only I could forfeit these thoughts
that torment me each evening.

It isn’t images of the witch that wakes me
from my dreams, but the other one that rouses
me before dawn. Despite the jewels
we brought with us, mother never was
too pleased to see us at her door. She blamed
me for our return. When father and brother
were asleep in their beds, she took me to the yard.
The snap of the stick striking my bare back
still echoes through my mind. The next day,
I asked her to show me how to
bake ginger snaps one last time.

I never could remember how to check the oven.