Red's Hood

If I call her pretty, will I be her mother’s condemnation?
The explanation to stick to the path,
stretching to her grandmother’s.

We’re from the city of churches.
roads as benches,
but we can’t sit together.

if I came out of the woods
they’ll chisel my smile into fangs
rephrase my compliments as a lure.

If I show her where the wildflowers grow,
I’ll be hunted to be the fur coat
Red’s friends wear, for the evening.

the name our town smears.
While she’ll just be a cautionary tale, about curiosity.
some lesson for her adolescent.

We’re from the city of churches.
Roads as benches.
No one will spare me a chair.

But.

When I tell her she’s pretty.
She compliments my big eyes,
that are all the better to see her
cheeks pinched to a peach blush.

I can only pay attention to her voice –
all the better to hear her.

Bigger grin whenever she calls my name!
all the better while eating her out.

And my woollen cloak, swallows her.
but she wears it anyway
sat down a couple of benches away.