mmmcccxcvi

The Witch’s Unbearable Relief

chips on
shoulders
rust tin men,
give cowardly
lions shoulder
blisters (who
convinced the
predator that
he was a cow
ard?), leave a
taste of dend
rite and bat
tery acid in
scarecrows’
mouths, give
toto a case of
the incessant
round and a
round and a
rounds and
yet empow
er dorothy
with a sense
that, if things
continue along
in this part
icular traj
ectory, she
might soon
find that she’s
grown some
wings and is
able to fly ho
me on her ve
ry own. as
for the witches,
each are empow
ered by a love-
hate relationship
with their own
power, although
none but two ev
er give a second
thought on the
feel of the power,
and none but those

very two feel the 

tingle of the potency
of the darker arts
involved in being
a scoundrel with
such power that
the words formed
within their two
mouths might be
chewed by the
mouth, swallow
ed and digested,
often quite un
comfortably, or
might as easily be
projectile vomited,
directly upon the
landing of each
crumbled letter
at the bottom of
their stomach,
after sliding
like dark
centipede-
like creatures
down their elong
ated esophagi;
no matter which
direction the
words of the
spell goes,
the damage
is all-in-all
the same, it’s
just that the
victims are
turned around.
the life of a hag,
especially one so
constantly scared
shitless of a little
damp spot, a rain
storm, much less
a thunderstorm,
the oceans, the
tidal waves, ri
vers, creeks,
women slough
ing, men just
sweating, the
fear, the fear
of a tiny tear
drop emanat
ing from one
of her own
eyes, is one
filled with
an extreme
ly elevated
anxiety. it
sounds like
she’s being
tormented
in such dem
onic ways as
she cries out
at the end of
a week? a
day? how
long had it
had been?
filled with
such absurd
ities, filled
with emo
tions like
she’d never
known before,
excitement, gid
diness, fear, loss:
“i’m melting!
Melting!” But
let me offer up
to you that what
sounded like raspy
horror was the most
immense relief, the
greatest joy she’d
ever known. She
was a witch, cursed
with a raspy and
nasally voice that
could make any
utterance sound
as if it were her
dying words. But
these, her actual dy
ing words, the screams,
what came at us as
the horror, the relief,
the how did we do
this, the how could
we ever get away
with this, these
were nothing
compared with
the sheer release,
the closest thing
to pleasure she’d
get, were those
moments that 

the bit of water

from that pail

at first began

to shrink the

screaming

warted

witch, and

inevitably

took her
into the
ground
beneath
her, until

eventually

she flows
many a sep
arate way
somehow
making her
way to one
vast expanse
of ocean after

another, the 

wet expanse

from which 

we had all

originally

arrived. the
relief would
last at least
until then,
although it
would dis
sipate as
what was
left of her
became more 

and more and

more disp
ersed. such
toxins were
created during
this process, well,
truth be told, it was
a particularly large
gulp or two of a
witch from another
unknown portion
of “unseen earth”
that had made its
way to kansas
and which dor
othy had taken
just before she
slipped into
such a long
and feverish
slumber. once
a witch is gone,
she’s gone, but
there nevertheless
come out of the
intoxicated earth
the fundamentals
for more to arise
and fall, just as
this one had done.
as dorothy began
to fall deeper and
deeper into that
feverish slumber,
as the tornado
twisted and
swept through
the dusty cor
ners of several
states, the in
cantations
that took her
over, “there’s
no place like
home” “foll
ow the yell
ow brick
road,” “we’
re off to see
the wizard,
the wonder
ful wizard
of oz,”
these
were the
spells of
dorothy
the kansas
witch. it had
already been
written. not
in books, mind
you, but in the
stars, and with

in the tattoos
deep-set with
in the skins of
the flying mon
keys and the
drunken munch
kins. fate is
the heresy that
these creatures
know too much
about, and will
do their part to
quell the rum
ors of destiny.
for each tale
involves a pair
of jeweled slip

pers, a cobbled 

sidewalk to a pro
fessorial codg
er, to a witch
that sounds to
shriek in the
greatest pain
ever felt, but
who is grate
ful for the
kansas witch
and her dot
ing dog, a
doting she
can only
find in the
deep recesses
of her boldest
imagation. st
ay away from
the soil that
stays moist
around dark
castles, as
it’s more

trouble
than could
be conjured
by the most
cursed spark
ling glass
dunked
ever so
carefully
into the
gloomiest
of moats.
find a cou
ntry with
no castle,
i say. cold
homes and
hairy warts
are bad om
ens, might
you please
drop by to
help me rid
myself of
mine? my
gratitude,
and your
recompense
would know
no bounds.
but do hurry
before the
cobbled
rust of
oz disin
tigrates.
come
now.