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I Want To Start Over

My sister and I

stumble over roots,

their knobs and gnarls

catch our bruised feet;
branches reach for us,

their claws catch in hair or sweater;

I hear

no footsteps behind us now,

but we’ve been running for so long,

the light’s fading,
and the hut,
should we ever reach it,
will not have gum drops and candy canes,

no shingles of sugar-laced gingerbread,

but a pair of restless, filthy chicken feet,

and a wicked beak,
while behind us,
black birds
have long since eaten
every crumb of bread

we left to mark our path.