Rewitched

Tell Derwood to fuck off. Leave him
to his billboards, let him write
the words. Let the stove overflow
with smoke and lift your broomstick
from the floor, put it back
where it belongs (where he does not
belong) and fly away again
with Mother. Let the warlocks do
the dirty work. Let them take care
of their feebler selves. Kick off
your sharp toed patent leather pumps
and teach Tabitha to turn red-headed boys
into toads. Teach her to conjure swamps
and leave the toads in. He hates

what makes you woman, not witch,
the breasts you funnel into cups,
the blonded spell of your sex, your super-
nature, all your gendered tricks.
He didn’t see the blood
when you gave birth, just chewed
the wet cigar. He knew you could create
a thousand devils in a day
without the need for pain. You mop
the ground he walks on, cook & serve
his courage, wash & dry his success, but this –

is just a phase. They’ll dim the stage
before his time to age, before
the contrast shows: your husband in a rocker
with a blanket across his lap. A woman
should not live to see her husband die
but you will. Then it’s out
of Technicolor houses, off to Africa
with Doctor Bombay to heal the sick
and starved. Shake your hair
in Paris fountains. Take your shirt off
on the beach. Make love with life
and strangers. One day

you’ll forgive them. One day
you’ll come back
and reclaim the moon.

The prompt at We Write Poems this week was to create some fabulous version of yourself, then project that fabulous alter-ego into a familiar situation, such as that from a TV sitcom. I chose to be the saucy sister of Samantha from Bewitched – Sabrina. But she’s even saucier when she’s me (And in my version, witches are immortal, cause I want them to be).