The daughter is too bold
to be anything but
a cuckoo in the nest.
Good girls sit home
and sew in the dark.
They don't go seeking fire
in the witch's woods.
A rider, his horse
black as cooked blood
leads her to the house.
There, she learns to part
seed from stone,
sweet from spoilt,
fate from fortune.
The witch is old, ravenous,
fat belly and spindle thighs.
The moonlight glints off
the rusted iron of her teeth
like it glinted off
a mother's needles.
Fire that will never catch and burn.
At midday there is a rider,
his horse as red as meat.
As red as the strike of tinder
in a dry woods.
The stove gets hot fast.
The girl knows one way
to slake the witch's hunger.
There is another rider
that leads her back.
His horse is white
as fresh chopped bone.
The daughter's hands are cold
But her eyes are blazing
She has learned the making
Of her own fires.
About the Author: Holly Black is the bestselling author of contemporary fantasy novels for teens and children, including Tithe: A Modern Faerie Tale, White Cat, and The Spiderwick Chronicles (made into a feature film). She lives in western Massachusetts. Please visit her website to learn more.
Copyright © 2004 by Holly Black. This poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.