The Witch
Cameron 11/27/2011
She appears this time of year,
Hanging from porches and
October trees…
Seen on the faces of children
In cackling masks.
Where did she come from?
What was her form?
Tortured body
Bent over, twisted, grotesque,
Broken bones, shattered ribs,
Teeth missing,
Beaten
Face green with bruises,
Swollen with blows,
Fingers smashed into claws
Clutching, desperate…
Draped in cloth soaked black with pitch
Stinking, bitter mercy
This crone of sixteen
Or twenty-two
Or forty-five,
Or sixty-five
Or eighty,
Riding the rumbling carts
Over rutted roads
Between jeering crowds
To the approaching fires,
For her “crime”
(Ultimate victim blame).
Only in the end rising free,
A dark black Phoenix
Of ash and smoke
Flying away on the wind of the world.
And today’s autumn wind tugs this night
On fire proof black synthetics
And green plastic masks,
As children wear her form,
Threaten tricks,
Seek treats,
Oblivious,
To the wind calling low
“Never again!”
