August 2001 / Volume Two / Issue Two
Joy Reid
Witches of Eastwood

Within the steamy cauldron
of our suburban garage
my sister and her
best friend
have safeguarded themselves

against me.

Round about
I go
contesting every entrance
raising shrieks
of self-hugging delight and self-congratulation.

Ostracism is control.

Faces swim
in the cross paned windows.
Jellyfish pale
with Dugong nostrils
and aquatic eyes
they wear the recognition that comes
before a pitiless spear
is plunged.

Eyes float…

alien…   curious.

Mouths croak
lip-less gashes.

I have no shafts to loose
no poisoned entrails to throw.

These soi-disant sacrifices
these pseudo sufferers have stolen the ladle
and so

I cannot divine
the recipe.
They have no stones but if they did
this would be no…
parable of the accused woman, no…
benign yarn about soup.
No
simple words can be all-powerful incantations
when malice is stay-sharpened
by use.
Though they hold dolls
mere poppets
still
pins plunged
with the conviction that a sister brings
can kill.

Splinters crack into long icicles
and fall.
Glass urine tinkles
but it does not pool like lies.

Lies are… shards.

Now
now their mouths are the mouths
of blow-up dolls.
The temperature
cools.
Behind vaporous eyes the possibilities are whirling…

anti-clockwise.
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