The Changeling

Milk turns. Bread won’t rise.

Its stomach bloats

and it will not grow.

The eyes are open;

they watch me bending above.

Puny arms. Puny legs.

Could it run?

Could it reach?

Its grin scars my skin.

It hears noises

down the dark path

and screams.

I let the rain come in above the cradle:

It’s cold as a creek bed

and laughing.

No cross, no salt, no iron

Can take this child away.

I cover its face with foxglove

And heat the poker in the flame.