Hansel and Great stayed out all night.
And the next one, and the next.
Their parents scoured the forest for signs
but returned with only a mystery:
How could children vanish into the evening
like phantoms in the fog?
The search parties passed the witch’s house,
her kettle steaming, the broth percolating
beneath the lid. She invited them to dine.
“The peculating of children,” she said,
“a shameful sin indeed.” Hansel’s father:
“Who said my children were stolen?”
“My mistake. I simply assumed.
Three evenings gone and all.”
When they finished, the farmers
thanked the witch for the victuals
spread out beneath the trees to
widen the net in their search.
To no avail.
Her house empty again, the witch
poured the leftovers into jars.
