Baba Yaga Poem by Theresa Williams

After she’d tipped her beer
more than five times
she began haltingly to dance
and I understood:  she isn’t different
from any other woman
who finds herself
at the back of the line
who goes to parties alone
and has no one to sit with
Where are her fiery skulls?
Next you know she’ll be wearing
rhinestones and face cream
She’ll be inviting us to her house
for cookies and milk
We’ll kiss her old wrinkled cheek

Theresa Williams


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