A late summer sunbeam slanted inside

and reddened to amber. Gretel reached

the broom into corners, teasing

the dot of color. The girl’s

limber movements set the witch

muttering: Fields of grain with no shade,

knife that keeps its edge. A few words —

Bees and candles, year’s turn —

growled into Gretel’s hearing,

fumbled words that twisted

the stiff mouth. Gretel saw sooty teeth.

She took a breath to ask something,

but the plaything of light

withdrew, and the dirty floor

had to be swept clean

before it was too dark to see.