Bone Mother

by Holly Black

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.