Babayaga

whispered into their sleeping, bare backs,
kissing their shoulder blades over and again
in fair and noble exchange.
Truly we were better charms
than any other diptych saints
they stumbled upon.

Nearly every crone bleats like a goose,
“Oh, I didn’t choose to be this way,
my papa went heavy with a spiked belt,
my husband fucked my virgin daughters.”
Ah, cry at the hurricanes, spit at the storm.
You could pile these melancholies higher
than all the tsar’s dead armies.
We never had patience or time for complaints,
such wasted words, tiresome as a winter’s rutabaga.
Flee the darkness of the past, run or drive or fly away.
Too many fools bear the burdensome bad of what was,
it spills out of their saddle bags and stuffed steamer trunks,
as they travel along slow bearing a heavy load,
while life itself flies fast by.
Running through nights with us you learned right,
to ride light and keep your history shut tight,
or leave it on the roadside far behind
for the village clocks count in chimes
all the time that is wasted,
nursing grief to no profit.

Elga never burdened us with her tale,
and we respected her restraint,
for the scars of fortune’s razor were not hard to see.
And I never asked Zoya, either, nor did she talk,
though we had guessed the shape of her history
long before the beasts finished
ripping out that old man’s throat.
That’s about it, as for the rest, bah,
our pack grows weary of the bitches’ barking,
on and on sobbing sagas so sad any bard
would bash his head in rather than recite.
Cynical, yes, but we chose this life
not because we were beaten or broken,
not angry or aching—
no man ever put me down, no—
we picked this path only
to drink at life’s fresh spring,
ever and anon.
We thirsted for the ripeness
of a thousand soft fruits,
oh, let me put my hands on a peach ripe this day,
but, alas, see here, my palms are nothing but air now,
and there would be tears in my eyes too
if there were eyes for weeping.

XVII

Rita Hayworth, Monique Chevalier, and Belinda Lee all stared up at Noelle from the covers of the movie magazines that were strewn across her big hotel bed as the little girl sat, propped up by pillows, biting into another eclair. It was her third of the morning and the sugar had her bouncing. She had also gone through five butter cookies and two fruit parfaits. She was so excited by Paris. This was truly the life of a fairy princess. She had never stayed in a place so elegant; the suite had two separate bedrooms and a large center room with a crystal chandelier and a full, deep fireplace. She had asked Elga if they could always live like this but the old woman said no. “Enjoy it now, but this is not the way we will live. Money attracts too many curious noses. We get what we need but we stay low, out of sight. Like hedgehogs and moles. But there will be nice treats like this from time to time”—she patted the girl’s head—“so gobble them up when they come.” Then she let Noelle order any dessert she wanted off the big room-service menu.

When the clattering cart had arrived, the hotel boy placed the tray at the end of the bed and Elga signed the bill. Then the old woman took her doctor’s bag and disappeared into the bathroom, with Max at her heels. The room-service boy had given the rat a curious look, but Noelle had said, “Ceci n’est pas un rat.” The boy looked a little confused but left without asking a question. Alone in the room now, Noelle was wiping the last traces of chocolate and powdered sugar from her lips when she heard Elga call out.

“Noelle, are you finished?”

“Yes!”

“How was it?”

“Delicious!” the girl gleefully shouted, kicking her little legs with joy.

“Ha, good. Come here, girl, I need your help.”

Noelle jumped up from the bed and skipped across the room. Pulling open the bathroom door, she found Elga sitting on the edge of the claw-footed bathtub. Towels covered the floor and a few of the old woman’s odd jars of colored powders lined the counters. The steaming water looked funny to Noelle, it was same shade of deep dark green as the little slimy salamanders that lurked in her mother’s country garden.

“Come child, I need you to take a bath now.”

“Can I take it later?” Noelle edged away, scrunching up her nose. The room smelled like rotten eggs.

“No, now,” said Elga, patting the side of the bath. “Hop in the tub and I will comb those knots out of your hair.”

From the time she had spent in the country hospital, Noelle was used to disrobing and bathing in front of strangers. And so, resigned, she pulled her nightgown over her head and stepped naked toward the steaming bath. Elga had promised her shopping later in the day, so while the dark waters did not seem inviting, Noelle did not want to cause any trouble. Slipping her toe into the water, she quickly pulled it out.

“Oh, it’s much too hot!”

“No, it is not.” Elga spanked at her bare bottom. “Get in there.”

There was a firmness to the old woman’s words and a sting to her slap that made Noelle slightly nervous, so, despite the almost scalding temperature, she slowly squatted, wincing, down into the swampy bath. Her skin was scorched pink from the heat, but she got all the way in without complaint and rested her head gently against