Baba Yaga

Feet of bones, feet of—
Feathers, cracked claws
she walks (she stalks)
through ferns and frost,
through nettles lost,
through marshes
that swallow you whole.

Mouth full of soot, eyes full—
of coal, they say she eats the day
and the last blink of night.
Knots in her hair,
claws in her stew,
she hums. She hums,
and her house hears, too.

One-two step—back,
don’t look behind, but mind—
the flicker
in the black. A snap,
a limb or twig,
a shadow long and—

don’t trip. (Don’t slip.)
She’s under your skin,
watching the beat,
the thrum of—feet
(too sweet, too young
to keep from the stew).

Bones for walls.
Bones in walls.
Her feet are yours.