Angela France
A Taste of Ginger
Gretel liked older women:
she weakened for grey hair, lines
around piercing eyes and the decayed
confidence to grasp where they hunger.
She'd found some reason
in therapy; in reconciling
sibling rivalry with her inner
child; but liver spots, or a bent
knuckle still captivated her notice
with a thrill she could not name.
Gretel watched her brother
deny the dark, and the time lost:
watched him grow diamond
hard and caged by their past.
She swore that she'd stay open
to her future.
Yet watching him
made her shiver, as if memory
were a snap of ginger on her tongue.
She knew she could never stop
searching for the ravenous desire
that an older woman had
once shone at him.
