The Poetry of Karla Huston | ||
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SAFE WATER | ||
I used to think it only took
a bucket of water to kill a witch. I'd seen it so many times: how Dorothy flung it at her, the broom on fire, the Scarecrow on fire, the Tinman rusting nearby, the old lion sucking his tail. The witch crumbled to a steaming pile. I'm melting, I'm melting, she said as the monkeys grabbed their eyes, flapped their wings in despair. For years, I slept with a glass of water next to my bed. Now I know it's not the witch who scares me, but the idea of her, that old nose still hooked under her nasty hat, the puddle of fire spreading, what I couldn't control finally reduced to steam and smoke. |
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Previously published in Main Street Rag and the chapbook: Virgins on the Rocks, Parallel Press, 2004.
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