Children––their feet on damp
leaves––watch awed under trees
with their sweets-smelling noses
on Red’s basket of fresh-baked.
I, as woodcutter, stride from the grove
to warn her of treachery––wolf is eyeing
& nosing & preying your goodies.
Then, I run to the brook, throw off
my hunting vest, pull over my head
my fur hood, my grandmother
spectacles, shawl & I crouch
in a bed of raked leaves. O granddaughter
what delicious you’ve brought me to eat––I offer
my paw––but she sees me through fur––
your eyes sting of pinecone your ears leak
of worm-drop your teeth slick of tree-sap––
and when I as wolf grab the goods
the children hate-chase me
through dead leaves for trickery
& the birthday boy screams knives
with fierce eyes at me.
I try to throw off my disguise––
but he drags me to Red
to surrender her basket.
The children, craving
a way to forgive me
with one of the cookies
demand I be sorry. I,
as wolf, know when to act––
sorry––I fake from under my fur.