Post-Ridinghood Red

My mother will not let me catch fireflies;
I am not allowed outside past dusk.

My days have turned relentlessly predictable.
Which is not to say that I am not grateful
To the Woodsman. But what happens now?

I learned to skirt peril by sticking to the path
And not talking to strangers. I traded in the
Crushed cherry velvet cloak for burlap.

Grandmother died, but she was bound that way.
And I didn't die, despite the efforts of
Crashing teeth and stomach acid. I kicked and squirmed,
And did not die, but for what?

For a chance to die by something other than a predator?
My, what high hopes you have.

Let me tell you this: wolves are everywhere.
Behind the door of every cottage and
In all flowers there are wolves.

In the winsome smiles of chatty
Neighbors are rows of moving teeth,
The better to eat you with.