The Wicked Witch


Wasn’t a figment of my imagination

she was as real as the organ music


playing silently, in the rafters of the church

where little white doves quivered like altar boys.


She dressed in black, hovered in dim lit corridors

and needled sins from lily white skin.


Hail, Mary Mother of Grace cried for us.

St Bernadette, let us feel the holes in the palms of her hands.


Our days were worse than saccharine coated nightmares.

Who could we tell? No one, not even the priest.


Children disappeared, the church bells pealed

drowning out screams that tasted of arsenic


and the little white doves, quivered like altar boys.

We prayed for their souls, we pray for them now.


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