urn:lj:scribbld.com:atom1:wyrtgaelstre Mia Spencer strangelylovely@gmail.com Mia Spencer 2008-10-21T05:17:26Z urn:lj:scribbld.com:atom1:wyrtgaelstre:449 2008-10-21T05:12:50Z 2008-10-21T05:17:26Z <i>When I was a child<br />there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.<br />All day she peered from her second story<br />window<br />from behind the wrinkled curtains<br />and sometimes she would open the window<br />and yell: Get out of my life!<br />She had hair like kelp<br />and a voice like a boulder.<br /><br />I think of her sometimes now<br />and wonder if I am becoming her.<br />My shoes turn up like a jester's.<br />Clumps of my hair, as I write this,<br />curl up individually like toes.<br />I am shoveling the children out,<br />scoop after scoop.<br />Only my books anoint me,<br />and a few friends,<br />those who reach into my veins.<br />Maybe I am becoming a hermit,<br />opening the door for only<br />a few special animals?<br />Maybe my skull is too crowded<br />and it has no opening through which<br />to feed it soup?<br />Maybe I have plugged up my sockets<br />to keep the gods in?<br />Maybe, although my heart<br />is a kitten of butter,<br />I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.<br />Yes. It is the witch's life,<br />climbing the primordial climb,<br />a dream within a dream,<br />then sitting here<br />holding a basket of fire.</i><br /><br />-Anne Sexton-