Gretel nurses a knot
at a table for two
in a dive bar in Berlin.
Bloated shadows crawl above
the industry of night. He’s late.
Nerves ripple crumbs, popcorn for the crows.
Habit makes a ghostly work of worry,
she orders something bittersweet and clean as a witch’s mirror.
Snacks comb the peeling walls as the fault line’s gut
begins to growl. Hansel turns a corner
on the tail of a tangled crowd, unravelling
to the hum of haunted feet.
Her stomach rinses clear, hands wring dry
of history. He lands like a boy
sliding down the throat of a sycamore,
like a miracle.
We are not like them, she thinks,
we are completely here.
The pigeons come out to feast
and the children forget their names
by degrees.



Lisa Perkins is a published poet who has featured in The Mum Poem Press, the6ress, Free Verse Revolution and others. She lives in Dublin with her husband and three children. Poetry is her favourite place to disappear and be found in. Her work can be found on Instagram @lisaperks