The floors dared not creak
when the crone was spinning her thread.
A basket of silk and a basket of skulls occupied
the hearth.
Her wheel stilled, moonlight polishing its
spindle
as I entered in a pink dress, my
mother’s favorite shade,
to ask if she would spare a parent’s mind.
The woman stared at my wrist, a tributary
of veins flowing with youth. She smiled.
Her shadow like dark mold on the wall, her
voice subtle –
and how much are you willing to
give?
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