Baba Yaga The Wise

Come here, little crow,sit by the stove and unbutton your serious face. You were not born with your jaw clenched.You were not born counting coins,answering messages,holding your breath for permission. Once, you laughed from the belly—not the polite little cough adults call laughter,but the thunder-laugh,the mud-puddle laugh,the laugh that shook the bonesand told the body,Yes.…

From my green house above the garden,where roses climb the railingsand the tomatoes split themselves openwith summer sweetness,I hear the wild orchestraof small becoming things. High bright piercing—that red-light screamof little girls discoveringtheir lungs are doors. The world spends yearsteaching daughtershow to fold themselves smaller. Inside voices.Cross your legs.Raise your hand.Wait your turn.Do not interrupt.Do…

Come closer, little ember-girl,and warm your hands by the stove awhile.The night is full of womentrying to learn the differencebetween kindnessand self-erasure. They were taught young, you know. Taught to fold themselves small as handkerchiefs.Taught to soften every truthuntil it could be swallowed by others without discomfort.Taught to smile through hunger,through humiliation,through loneliness so deepit…

That is how the story begins… Not with monsters…Not with villains…But with women who were taught that devotion meant endurance. Women who believed that if they loved deeply enough, patiently enough, sacrificially enough, they could warm cold hands into tenderness and turn absence into home. My mother searched for love the way some people search…