Witches

I have this vision of creating a series of poems based on my family's stories. This poem comes from an old family story about when my grandmother and her sister were little girls.


We were witches, once.
We hid under our
Dining table cave and
Committed horrible, witchy acts.

Witches eat children
Everybody knows.
With scissors
We cut our baby dolls to
Pieces
Heaps of wide fleshy loops
In the empty pot
Like a soup made of band-aids
We imagined the cries of our babies
Of their mothers
As we cackled.

In the morning
We had
Nothing
To cradle.