Little Red Riding Hood’s Grandmother Emerges from the Belly of the Wolf
I’m not happy here in these woods. Since those grim days wed
to the wolf, I’ve been hiding. I was young. I did not know.
And now, here you are beside me in the warm, damp dark within
the arched bars of his ribs. Ah, sweetling, did the wolf bite
or bruise you? No? Good. Well do I remember such and worse,
broken bones, ripped red wounds, smashed, dripping lips, and teeth
scattered like die across the dirty flagstones. Many times, I woke
with bloody cheek stuck to the rough-cut floor of feldspar
and quartz in the yellow light of his mean little candle sparking
stars in the stone. Ah, child, you are my favorite, and I love you
desperately. The peaked cap and cloak of snowy velvet you wear
is my gift and charm against the perils of woods, wilds, and world.
Have I failed to shield you, too? I know your mother counseled
care, to creep along the path and bear the bottle softly
in your basket woven of reeds, to greet me daintily, and not to peer
too curiously at my shabby fittings and furnishings.
She is a good girl, the one who found this clouded cottage here
beneath three great oaks and knew the refuge the walls
would bestow. No, I know, I know. The wolf tricked the words
from you to find me. Nor did you mean to dally in a sunny hour
of a flowered field, gathering petals for a pretty posy.
No, I must not dwell on the ripping of my gown, or the ravishing,
or the great gulps as the wolf devoured me. Still is he crafty,
donning my clothes and drawing curtains close, shrouding the house
with shadows. There, I see my room dim beyond the ragged slash.
You go first. Mind your step. Yes, thank you, I need
your hand to step from this savage, severed skin, now
a ratty pelt for a huntsman. Please don’t let me fall into the hairy,
muscled arms of another man I will ever doubt to trust. Yes,
little lovely, the cake and wine you’ve carried will revive us all
after one more needless ordeal. Oh, no, here is too much to bear.
Now, scarlet stains your shining cloak. My gift, so dearly bought,
is red and ruined. How will I ever wash away the blood?
If I Was Dead, You’d Be Home by Now
Clever deluxe developers now retrofit nuclear missile silos to design upscale doomsday condos. Terrified, as sea level rises, as glaciers calve and roll, the poles shift, and stars fall and drift and shrink, rich citizens decide survival means burrowing beneath a scorched earth, leaving mountains melting and the air aflame. As a living animal on a living planet, I remember Laika, the Russian space dog. Dead
in a metal pod and drifting the void. I don’t like to think her last thoughts were of running on a beach, chasing a ball, a rabbit, a leaf, a child, loving a green world, or maybe dreaming of chewing grass stalks, a bone tossed into the yard. Abandon all green, ye who lower families, friends, and fellows below the Panic, for in last moments up here, we will slice and serve the mango, papaya,
and pineapple before the final flash. Survivors will sink into cylindrical doom, fully-furnished and refurbished for dark days sunk in steel and cement. And as the chosen bless themselves, claim salvation, thank gods, and leave heaven above and behind, we will brush a wisp of grass from a beloved cheek or toss a ball for the dog. We above will breathe the final blue of the last bountiful sky.
Eric Paul Shaffer’s Green Leaves: Selected & New Poems was published in October 2023. He is author of seven previous books of poetry, including Even Further West; A Million-Dollar Bill; Lāhaina Noon; and Portable Planet. Shaffer teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at Honolulu Community College.