In her lair she lies
tangled in a shawl of
dead carnations
given to her by
ancient lovers.

She is still wishing one
would return to save
her. Still waiting for a
White Knight
(in shining armor of course),

But knights never
rescue hags
they save their energy
for lily virgins
sleeping in snowy woods,
and dragon guarded
castles.

The witch is moody,
throbbing, and greedy for any love.
She’s a dark spider with traps to set
and snares princesses
(loneliness breeds jealousy like ugly babies).

Sometimes, when the moon
is right, and the light
is forgiving,
an unexpected prince
will stumble like a drunk
into her dark cave,
and the perfume
of dried flowers
like a potpourri can
intoxicate and blind
a fool

Then she croons
a soulful tune

“Purr into my mouth, sweet youth, for centuries I have longed for you.”

Morning light reflects against her
Snaggle-toothed grin and careless,
skin- this is what the prince, hung-over
and embarrassed, sees: tooth, and wrinkles
dark imperfection not a princess,
but an aged witch.

He apologizes for bothering her
and seeks the sunlight. And hopes to leave
the cave and the forest unnoticed.

She sings to his back as he
gathers his armor and shield
(his sword is lost).

“It’s nothing my boy, just remember my purring sighs, and leave me pink
carnations at the edge of the cave.”