The First Story
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open.
—Muriel Rukeyser
The first story is not about light or apples.
The first story is about the woods,
the woman in the red hood, the wolf.
About the path siren flowers call you off of.
About leaving a trail only crows can follow.
The first story is about a witch, a bright house
made of gingerbread, which is to say, gluttony.
There are cinders in the hearth that sift to nothing.
Imagine hair long enough to climb, a mother's lies.
All stories are about innocence. All stories are about loss.
But the first story is about the glossy dark,
about what happens when
you close your eyes.
There is a fire in the woods.
Only Baba Yaga has the magic to call it forth.
Follow a trail of shattered bones
and scattered stones and you will find
her blind chicken-legged house.
Sift every poppy seed with your tongue by morning
and her magic will appear to become yours.
Beware appearances.
Once you have sown fire
every story is about burning down.
But before this, the first story is about the dark.
Hark—the wolf inhabits the dark.
When you close your eyes, he is there,
a river of teeth and claws.
He will tear you apart if you do not stop him.
Do not stop him.
How else to transform?
The first story is not about creation.
The first story is about the thatched dark.
Do not be so eager to light the match.
If you are cold, hold yourself close.
If you are hungry, eat desire.
If you are terrified, sing the fear to sleep.
The first story is about the big silence,
dark before illuminating words were spoken.
This is the first story,
This is our story—close your eyes, listen.
Red Riding Hood Dispels the Myth of What Big
Teeth
So, you want to know where that whole
ludicrous business about the Wolf
in Grandma's nightclothes comes from?
It began as a dream my Grandma had a long time ago.
Grandma related her dream to my mother
and saying anything to that woman is akin to
broadcasting it across the airwaves.
Grandma told me the dream this way:
There was a knock at my door,
and I found myself fallen to the floor,
so I called out, "Come in, I need your help."
And when the door opened, I saw it was a wolf
wearing a magnificent red cape.
"Oh, Wolf," I said, "I feel I've died and gone
to heaven seeing a thing as lovely as your cape."
And then the Wolf came over, lifted me up,
and said, "Dear, Lady, have you forgotten?
It was you who sewed this cloak for me."
I was in his arms and we began to dance.
He said, "Oh, Grandma, what big eyes you have."
And I smiled and replied, "The better to
see you waltz, Wolf dear."
At that he smiled, and I said, "Oh, what big
teeth you have." He replied, "The better
to eat your cherry pie with."
Then we both laughed and kept on waltzing.
That morning, I awoke to a pounding at my door.
It was your future husband, Hunter,
saying he heard an awful racket
coming from inside my cabin.
I assured him it was nothing
out of the ordinary, just my snoring.
Grandma sewed me the cape she'd seen in her dream.
That cross-dressing myth and terrible violence folklorists
claim occurred must come from rumor, hearsay, blurred
tittle-tattle, the very same stuff fairy tales are made of.
Red Riding Hood Dreams of the Wolf
Love shook my heart,
Like the wind on the mountain
Troubling the oak-trees.
—Sappho (Mary Barnard translation)
The Wolf is lying in Grandma's bed,
the room filled his lupine scent.
I find myself next to him, naked,
my belly strangely swelled as if with child.
I notice there is blood welling up from
the Wolf's abdomen, his navel a spout.
"Drink," the Wolf pleads.
And so I sip from that cascade,
salt and sweet, hot and thick.
I sip and sip, I lick him clean
of blood till he sings out a howl.
Then in me stirs a loud reprise,
rises from deep inside, my first bay.
I bay myself awake, I bay into the new day.
“Red Hood Kisses, Tells All”
That was the tall-lettered headline in our town rag.
But I never told a thing back then, not to anyone, not the hag.
not even my best friend Gretel, who nagged me about where
I disappeared to afternoons. It was all conjecture.
Maybe my mother tipped off the reporters
because she was so disappointed in her daughter.
Or it was my husband Hunter’s revenge—the strife
of public humiliation for my being an unfaithful wife.
The media tells it as if I had no regard for my loved ones,
flaunted the affair. I was dismayed by what I’d done,
wracked with guilt. That I had given myself to the Wolf
rocked my to my core, tore me apart, and yet, it primed me
for becoming what I previously was not—
an independent woman of independent thoughts.
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open.
—Muriel Rukeyser
The first story is not about light or apples.
The first story is about the woods,
the woman in the red hood, the wolf.
About the path siren flowers call you off of.
About leaving a trail only crows can follow.
The first story is about a witch, a bright house
made of gingerbread, which is to say, gluttony.
There are cinders in the hearth that sift to nothing.
Imagine hair long enough to climb, a mother's lies.
All stories are about innocence. All stories are about loss.
But the first story is about the glossy dark,
about what happens when
you close your eyes.
There is a fire in the woods.
Only Baba Yaga has the magic to call it forth.
Follow a trail of shattered bones
and scattered stones and you will find
her blind chicken-legged house.
Sift every poppy seed with your tongue by morning
and her magic will appear to become yours.
Beware appearances.
Once you have sown fire
every story is about burning down.
But before this, the first story is about the dark.
Hark—the wolf inhabits the dark.
When you close your eyes, he is there,
a river of teeth and claws.
He will tear you apart if you do not stop him.
Do not stop him.
How else to transform?
The first story is not about creation.
The first story is about the thatched dark.
Do not be so eager to light the match.
If you are cold, hold yourself close.
If you are hungry, eat desire.
If you are terrified, sing the fear to sleep.
The first story is about the big silence,
dark before illuminating words were spoken.
This is the first story,
This is our story—close your eyes, listen.
Red Riding Hood Dispels the Myth of What Big
Teeth
So, you want to know where that whole
ludicrous business about the Wolf
in Grandma's nightclothes comes from?
It began as a dream my Grandma had a long time ago.
Grandma related her dream to my mother
and saying anything to that woman is akin to
broadcasting it across the airwaves.
Grandma told me the dream this way:
There was a knock at my door,
and I found myself fallen to the floor,
so I called out, "Come in, I need your help."
And when the door opened, I saw it was a wolf
wearing a magnificent red cape.
"Oh, Wolf," I said, "I feel I've died and gone
to heaven seeing a thing as lovely as your cape."
And then the Wolf came over, lifted me up,
and said, "Dear, Lady, have you forgotten?
It was you who sewed this cloak for me."
I was in his arms and we began to dance.
He said, "Oh, Grandma, what big eyes you have."
And I smiled and replied, "The better to
see you waltz, Wolf dear."
At that he smiled, and I said, "Oh, what big
teeth you have." He replied, "The better
to eat your cherry pie with."
Then we both laughed and kept on waltzing.
That morning, I awoke to a pounding at my door.
It was your future husband, Hunter,
saying he heard an awful racket
coming from inside my cabin.
I assured him it was nothing
out of the ordinary, just my snoring.
Grandma sewed me the cape she'd seen in her dream.
That cross-dressing myth and terrible violence folklorists
claim occurred must come from rumor, hearsay, blurred
tittle-tattle, the very same stuff fairy tales are made of.
Red Riding Hood Dreams of the Wolf
Love shook my heart,
Like the wind on the mountain
Troubling the oak-trees.
—Sappho (Mary Barnard translation)
The Wolf is lying in Grandma's bed,
the room filled his lupine scent.
I find myself next to him, naked,
my belly strangely swelled as if with child.
I notice there is blood welling up from
the Wolf's abdomen, his navel a spout.
"Drink," the Wolf pleads.
And so I sip from that cascade,
salt and sweet, hot and thick.
I sip and sip, I lick him clean
of blood till he sings out a howl.
Then in me stirs a loud reprise,
rises from deep inside, my first bay.
I bay myself awake, I bay into the new day.
“Red Hood Kisses, Tells All”
That was the tall-lettered headline in our town rag.
But I never told a thing back then, not to anyone, not the hag.
not even my best friend Gretel, who nagged me about where
I disappeared to afternoons. It was all conjecture.
Maybe my mother tipped off the reporters
because she was so disappointed in her daughter.
Or it was my husband Hunter’s revenge—the strife
of public humiliation for my being an unfaithful wife.
The media tells it as if I had no regard for my loved ones,
flaunted the affair. I was dismayed by what I’d done,
wracked with guilt. That I had given myself to the Wolf
rocked my to my core, tore me apart, and yet, it primed me
for becoming what I previously was not—
an independent woman of independent thoughts.
Lana Hechtman Ayers, originally
from New York, makes her home in
the Pacific Northwest where she
works as a manuscript and as
poetry editor of Crab Creek
Review. Lana also runs Concrete
Wolf Poetry Chapbook Press. A
Hedgebook alum, Pushcart and
National Book Award nominee, her
poems appear in many online and
print journals as well as in her two
full-length collections, Dance From
Inside My Bones and Chicken
Farmer I Still Love You. You can
visit her online at
http://LanaAyers.com
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Lana Hechtman Ayers
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