I am a chef. I have seen nearly three
centuries because I have learned to cook
cuisine of formidable sorcery.
My orchard yields only weeds. You can look.
I fetch a pailful to the scullery,
warp creeping jenny, pokeweed and hemlock
into aromatic strawberry crepes.
It takes me weeks of precise handiwork,
metamorphosing moss to muscat grapes—
and all the while I am madly hungry.
Springtime to springtime. That’s the time it takes
to set the banquet, set the trap, then rest
my eyes, side by side, on the pewter plate.
There’s nothing then but to wait, unconscious,
until, at last, some door admits a crook.
More than anything, I love having guests.
I count the skulls, the times I’ve been so blessed.
If you'd like to watch the Pale Man clip
from the movie "Pan's Labyrinth,"
brace yourself for some serious creepy.