Grandmother Red

One never quite recovers
From the trauma
Of being eaten.

I find myself consumed
With rage,
Still asphyxiating

Inside that wolf's
Acrid belly,
My flesh seared

By its stomach acid,
That constant sensation
Of burning

Before being cut out
And spilling into the world
Like a newborn.

This rebirth
Was not easy,
Born not of love

But of hunger,
Savagery,
And nonchalance.

So, I too transform,
Picking up her crossbow,
Hunting wolves

Till they are
But a rumor,
A whisper,

A forgotten myth.



NewMyths.Com is one of only a few online magazines that continues to pay writers, poets and artists for their contributions.
If you have enjoyed this resource and would like to support
NewMyths.Com, please consider donating a little something.

---   ---
Published By NewMyths.Com - A quarterly ezine by a community of writers, poets and artist. © all rights reserved.
NewMyths.Com is owned and operated by New Myths Publishing and founder, publisher, writer, Scott T. Barnes