The Wicked Witch of the West Inspires Her Muse
A sisterhood of witches? Please. Don’t drink
the Kool-Aid—those teenage wiccans weren’t progressive.
They pegged me as that green-skinned thing and Blink!
They forced striped socks on me, the Goth-obsessive.
I fought my nature turning frowns to smiles.
Instead of screaming Fuck! I warbled Bleep!
Exhausted from their never-ending trials,
I lay in that field of poppies. It denied me sleep.
So yes, I said I’ll get you, my pretty… and sicked
the flying monkeys on Saint Dorothy’s ass.
I threatened to drown her yappy mutt, then flicked
my broom and torched her Scarecrow’s barnyard grass.
Make her mad, I thought. Inspire my muse.
I was ready to melt—it was never about the shoes.
—Marybeth Rua-Larsen, Somerset, MA