Climbing In

By Rita Dove

Teeth.
Metallic. Lie-gapped.
Not a friendly shine 

Like the dime
Cutting my palm
As I clutch the silver pole
To step up, up 

(sweat clinging the dear lady’s
cheek)-these are the big teeth,
teeth of the wolf 

under Grandmother’s cap.
Not quite a grin.
Pay him to keep smiling 

As the bright lady tumbles
Head over tail
Down the clinking gullet.

The Fright of the Forest

Inspired by Rita Dove
By Meg Hewitt

Bows.
Branches. Thick trunks
Not a friendly shine to enter to 

like the hat clutching my head
as I light the candle to enter
take a big step, and enter 

(candle slipping against the wetness of my worried hands)
huge trees hovering over my now so small body,
trees of the well weaved spider webs. 

Wallowing in my big boots
making deep foot prints in the mud,
trying not to turn and run away from this dark and worrisome place

as I trip
head over heels
over there gauging roots.

Rosa

By Rita Dove

How she sat there,
The time right inside a place
So wrong it was ready.

That trim name with
its dream of a bench
To rest on. Her sensible coat.

Doing nothing was the doing.
The clean flame of her gaze
Carved by a camera flash.

How she stood up
When they bent down to retrieve
Her purse. That courtesy.

Sybil

By Meg Hewitt
Inspired by Rita Dove

How she looked in her living room
chair with Emma and I on either
arm while she was knitting,
laughing with her, growing closer.

That far-seeing name, she saw us
grown and happy, walking like
her, in sensible shoes.

Always cooking traditional English
meals, given with love to us all.

Eating slowly so as not to finish
her meal before anyone else. Her
care. That politeness.