According to legend, when Hansel and Gretel wandered through the forest
they left a trail of bread crumbs behind with their footprints
so they could find their way back out.
I’m sewing a blanket full of bruises made out of my own skin
with only your fingers and veins as needle and thread.
But neither of us will make it out alive;
we’re all sinking under the weight of our own bodies
which drag us down like the handful of stones
Virginia Woolf slipped into her pockets
before stepping into the rushing waters, to drown.
To vanish means to disappear completely.
We will never be here again.
Sometimes I light 23 candles, one for each year of your life,
and turn away so I don’t have to watch them melt down
to the wick before my very eyes.
Let’s pretend the bed you occupy at the hospital
is filled with someone else’s ghost.
Let’s pretend there’s no IV stuck in your arm,
no flimsy white gown wrapped around your tender limbs.
Let’s pretend you’re well and whole, then rewind the tape
to watch Hansel and Gretel walk backward out of the forest,
away from the witch living in her candy house
who wanted something so much
she couldn’t bear to live without it.