A girl comes crying to her mother:

the boys are pulling my hair again.

Her father says it’s how they show affection,

But mother takes her to the kitchen instead.

She tells her:

The hunters always use this midnight mixture;

I’ll teach you how to make it when you’re older.

Consume this paste without the repercussions,

But struggle to breathe when tar flows through your veins.

The little bushes growing in our garden

Will show some crimson berries when autumn comes.

Its flesh is sugar sweet and ripe for picking,

But honeyed words can conceal a deadly seed.

The girl listens.

When she grows up she doesn’t marry;

the men call her the witch’s daughter.

You can pick your poison in the back garden,

where decaying bodies are buried below.