Baba Yaga Tells Vasilissa

Bake us cookies sweet, he said
I baked them rough like my ancient feet.

Smile like an angel for me, he said
I bit his ring finger clean to bone.

Make me a stew for my aching joints
I brewed nettle and nightshade and rue.

I am not your sweetheart, I am not your wife.
I am terror and iron.

I am wild and woman.

I am my own,
my own.

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