Babayaga

The loot was split fair,

Elga loaded a half dozen bartered asses
and rode off, beating them down the lane,
laden with potent bounty.

It was only long later that she turned up again,

sprouting in our path like a drizzle-day mushroom might,
now pulling Zoya along, fresh bait for her fancy.
Elga was always a barb, you know her well enough now,
even a small taste of her bitterness lasts a cur’s age.
And the young one too often caused us grief,
too pretty. Such wide blue eyes, such fulsome paps,
pulling like a strong northern tide.
Elga and Zoya were good enough companions
but at times so dark, too conniving for me—
their trick was idiot simple,
Elga dangled the girl,
first luring in arguably deserving devils,
then milking them of their shiny kopecks,
before cutting them free of life’s loose grasp—

In these days our bickering was slight but needle sharp,

and so when we were chased to the fens, pauper poor,
or bulge-eyed with bare-bones famine,
I was more than happy to say farewell.

Thusly we would come, we would go,

and the years passed like bloody feathers
ripped by hungry hands
off a barnyard hen.

And now here we are,

death running fast toward fate,
fate running fast toward death
as a sour Elga waddles the cold cobblestones,
hissing out ancient maledictions.