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She cocks her head,
long brown locks
talk down to me.
An ice princess—
royal posture
in the House.
I provide: food, shelter,
someone to ignore.
Wolves deposited her—
soft mouth, sharp teeth—
on my step. No care
for arrival’s tale,
what she must is Out.
Watch as she steadily
sniffs for latch, key, door.
My sagging form blocks.
Before the next full moon,
she’ll mimic my words,
tone, clothes, limp.
Brilliant impostor.
Artful understudy.
All survivors are.
Like myself. When
hustled in, bloodied, torn,
I howled every song
they wanted. I might
be her sister. I might
be the witch. Hell,
I could crook into
a hag, poison red apple
in hand—mother’s
most special,
often only,



Lucy M. Logsdon resides in Southern Illinois where she raises chickens, ducks and other occasional creatures with her husband and two rebel