Another redraft of this poem. I just workshopped it in class and have been given advice for it, so expect another redraft soon.
The parent/s of Hansel and Gretel
The first time it happened
they were too shocked to react.
It must be grief, Gretel
thought, and decided it would
pass. Hansel hid the dress,
longed to sell or burn it,
but the knowledge that it had been his
mother’s favourite stopped him.
Its hiding place was discovered
and it returned.
She’d return with it.
Face clean-shaven and
skin painted white.
Rouge-deep lipstick applied with
virgin preciseness.
Eyes decorated with charcoal
and cheeks dusted with
unnatural blush.
Short hair just long enough
for a few teasing curls.
The chest wasn’t padded,
that first time. Hairy arms
stood out against the delicate
material, sweated armpits
tainting it a darker shade.
His bum looked big in it.
‘Hello,’ she said, his deep
voice croaking out a high pitch.
‘I’m your new step-mother.’
She would appear every so often,
place unwashed vegetables on
their plates, watch them
hesitate and yell,
‘If it’s not good enough,
leave! There’s barely enough
to live on!’
He would emerge soon after,
flustered, apologetic for his
wife’s tone, but never
contradicting.
Hansel said nothing, while
Gretel washed and prepared
their meagre meal.
The children heard them arguing
one night, voice deep to shrill,
sometimes playing the wrong part.
‘They eat all the food, they must go!’
‘But they’re my children.’
‘No, they’re a burden, a reminder. Useless.’
‘Useless. Yes, useless.’
Both saw them off, but only
the father took them into the
woods.
He was still wearing the dress.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as he
left them to starve,
‘She made me.’
Of course, they thought,
now alone to die.
How can a father ever
grow to hate his children?
No. it was her fault;
the stepmother who
never existed.
Scribbled Thoughts 