The Sweet Childhood of the Wicked Witch

She was not born wicked.

She was born small,
with jam on her chin
and one shoe missing,
patting beetles
back onto leaves,
saying sorry
to cups she broke.

Already accused
by the furniture.

The house kept records.

Mother was a cupboard
that opened only for knives.
Father was weather
that signed the walls.
The cat watched from the sill,
white as a verdict.

At seven
she learned the kettle
could scream
and still be useful.

At nine
she brought flowers home
and found God
in the laundry basket,
folded badly,
smelling of bleach
and old permissions.

She gave Him a sock.

No miracle occurred.

No one said witch.

They said difficult.
They said dramatic.
They said she had a face
that asked for trouble
and then charged trouble rent.

So she grew a hat.
So she grew a broom.
So she grew the official wart
where tenderness had slipped
through a crack in the plaster.

Each accusation
found a place to live.
Each punishment
taught her posture.
Each locked door
taught her fingers
the manners of keys,
the small theology
of hairpins.

By thirteen
she could make boys afraid
by looking directly
at the lie in them.

By forty
she had buried three versions
of herself
behind the garden shed,
each with a ribbon,
each with teeth.

The wicked witch
was once a girl
who fed crumbs
to small doomed things
and believed mercy
was normal weather.

Then the kingdom
sent its notices.
Then the house
approved the damage.
Then love arrived
holding a broom
and no receipt.

She swept.

She swept so well
the whole kingdom
eventually disappeared.

F.S.F.