The Ogre's Seven Daughters

Our crowns switched for boar-
hair caps in sleep by that genius
Thumb. It's a cunning child survives
the parent. We smile in last sleep, teeth

sharp and even-- not mother's but
not other, either. Our cheeks bloom.
We share the room with seven
strange boys, guests tonight--

dinner tomorrow. Their smaller
danger's nothing compared to Father's
hunger we inherit.
He'll mistake us and we'll die

at his hands,
our supper strewn
on the bed, bone
in throat and

dove blood trickled.
Mother'll miss us--
Sing at the table, eat in the bed,
and monkeys like us'll hang

over your head. Mother
scrubbed scaly skin of sister,
greenness, as if it mattered.
What devouring promise

we showed! All for naught.
Slit throats; then wriggle and rot
to heaven, hell, or whatever
plot awaits girls with appetite.