Gretel knows what to say to the boy who thinkswe're saved.

Gretel knows, put a girl in water andshe'll drown; boil it,

she'll cook. Gretel knows there's no salvation; only storage,

refrigeration, freezing. A fairytale of Tupperware, stained

and scratched, sudded beside the sink. Even old crones

have to eat. We be fat. We be lean. Gretel knows it's just

a change of state, conduction of heat. Gretel knows

how we swell and settle like dough with weight of air, time.

The child hacked from the wolf 's stomach, pulled from the womb,

taken from the oven or the pot. But Gretel knows it is too late.

The ingredients in us activate. A raising. Our edges puff and blur,

give and take of the world about us. It doesn't matter, Gretel told him,

she knows that the house is cake for fuck's sake. The earth

is seasoning. Our sweet flesh is so tender it flakes between

our fingers. Gretel knows. That the wicked stepmother,

the old crone, Baba Yaga, me—Gretel—we are all the same.

Archetypal and obsessed with our stomachs. Gretel says:

This is the bread that broke the body. This is my body: take it. Eat.

This is the tongue that licked the bowl of the cement mixer clean.