‘Gretel at 43’ by Ellen Elder

In one of my mom’s
Liz Claiborne purses
I find hushpuppy crumbs
petrified in a tissue,

dried tight as bone.
How long since
I’ve opened
this purse?

Perhaps she was
at Red Lobster
and, never the indulger,
asked for a doggy bag

which never arrived
so she tucked them
into the soft paw of her purse
where they mingled

with the oyster crackers.
Or gingerbread,
since who can tell
a crumb from a crumb?

I scatter the remains
in the garbage over
the morning’s coffee grains.
I scatter them so that I can

go back, or so that
she can follow, I do
not know which.
As for Hansel,

he’s fine. Has two kids,
gets home by six,
plays indoor soccer
on the weekend.

From issue #5: autumn/winter 2017

About the Author
Ellen Elder holds degrees from the University of Chicago, Miami University of Ohio and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Her poetry appears in DMQ Review, Exquisite Corpse, Leveler, Painted Bride Quarterly, Tampa Review and elsewhere. Born in NYC, she was raised in Cincinnati and spent childhood summers in Ireland. She lives in Germany.