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?