Being The Older One

you wanted to cry.
being the older one, you couldn't
and what would Gretel do then

her small face crumpled
like a rosebud
so you withstood the question

hammering in your head
as though the woodsmen were near
and the clearing still before you:

why did my parents bring us here to die?
you just said.
Gretel, do not cry.

angels are still nearby
and they will sing to us a tune
laden with candies.

and she slept.
while you watched for
the inconstant moon.

the wound of footsteps
withering away.

mary angela douglas 15 january 2018