should Gram find me finding—I will not be nice. Oh, Jehovah. I am a witch in my wishes, I am saying. There have long been locks betwixt the mattress. In the dark, she pulls her out her partial plate and brushes it clean and it clinks in the bowl. I have seen her mole on her nipple, have seen how her nose points arrowed out. I have seen how she lies, how she dyes her hair yellow. She cuts it up and cuts it off. She dabs her mole. There is a glass on the sink where she soaks her fiddled-out gabber. I have put my fingers in it. In her mouth, on her tongue, there are bumps that make maps. That tongue is a sesquisquare—a biquintile. It makes a locomotive. In her holes, there are some gums. Way behind, there is silver and it chimes and it clanks our forks banging around in the back. There are metals. She is loud. There are sharp smells. I have teeth to lose. I have took her teeth, worn them in. I have lost some teeth, put them beneath, betwixt my mattress. I have waited and nothing comes. No coins and no bills. No fairies. Pagan, says Gram. No Santa—he is of Satan. I did not get pillow presents. I hid what fell. On my skin, I nicked Wicca spells. Gram puts her partial plate in in the morning. In night, she takes pisses. I hear her up reading, hiding. I am slicing a node on my torso. Beneath go my bibles, my ologies, myths. She sees my lights on. I nick. I have laundered our linens. There are odors in her unders. A knock is on the door. I make it dark. You get to bed, she says. I lie, I am.
40 ⚔ Elizabeth Mikesch - I Go to the Trees