I am awake in the witch’s garden,
this green deluge which blooms and exudes.
Here I find my mother, here I find her mother.
Here the moon grows as fat as a melon.
My mother feeds me spoonfuls, brags to
Her kin that I can eat as much as the men.
My mother wants me to be thick, to take the
Moon into my mouth, to gobble up her spoons.
I eat even the metal! There is nothing I do not eat.

At night, my mother crawls into my bed. My mother
Is bones and teeth, or two fists which open and close.
Whenever she is asleep, her hands glow but hold nothing.
My mother is of those who do not eat. Her body rejects
Food, eats only itself. My mother’s mother watches
Us with her great, big eye. With her kitchen knives,
She cuts meat from the bone. She tells us of our cousin
Who once ate a rat whenever she was locked in a house.
That night the moon is a rampion, or a peeled potato.

In summer, the garden oozes and ulcerates. It is an
Open wound. A green of a different kind, it infects everything.
My mother crawls into my bed. I listen to her breaths.
I listen to the roaches which pass and scatter through the walls.
The roaches feed me carrot stew, tinfoil, string beans, and chicken skins.
I speak through the wall, tell them that I, too, know hunger.
I, too, can take the moon into my mouth, can gobble up spoons!
Together we are an event. Together we eat everything.
My mother does not stir, despite this great procession.

There was once a man outside of the garden. My mother could
Have eaten him whole. But there was a suicide: a Houdini!
He escaped her appetite, escaped the witch’s house, left her
To eat only herself. So she did, and gave up food completely.

At night my mother crawled into bed, her body as limp as a fish–
Her eyes like fish, too. And the moon a thin, white powder.
Together she and the moon counted spoons, counted cutlery.
The roaches would bring me aluminum, chicken liver, catsup, and
Cube steak. Together we would pass and scatter through the walls.

At eight, I was sent to a family who promised rutabaga, deer roast,
Spiced beef – pies, too. They thought that they could feed me.
They thought that a girl fed so little could only eat so much!
But I showed them. I ate even the plates – the cushions, too!
At night I would lie still in my bed, as still as a turnip. My eyes
Would peer out like tomatillos, peas, mustard seeds, or sprouts.

Whenever I returned to my mother, I had meant to eat her up.
But her mother wouldn’t let me, put me to work in the garden,
Instead. There I grew persimmons, artichoke, asparagus, oregano.
The great, big eye watched all of this, and more. She told me
There were men to bring food, to bring pastries and radishes.
In exchange, I could give strawberries, tomatoes, or pears.
But I could give nothing up, could give no bite of my body!
Still I was stripped as bald as an onion. The moon, too, was
An onion. Together we rose like an indefatigable star.

Now I mince meat, clip parsnips, split green beans.
They tell me that one day the witches’ garden will be mine.
Here I find my mother, here I find her mother.
They are not scared of my hunger, though it is a great
And terrible thing. I am the hungriest of the three of us.
I eat with the flies; I eat with the roaches. They are happy
That I am a growing girl. They are happy that I can take
The moon into my mouth! That I can gobble up spoons!
We eat even the metal! There is nothing we do not eat.