Stoning the Witch. A Poem by Miriam C Jacobs

 
 

Come get your things before I put them out

in the rain, you want to say, your face

in the mirror white enough to frighten milk.

But every time you touch the phone your capillaries shrivel.

Last night the witch almost got away

clutching your daughter, sliver of silver, white-armed,

honeybird tattoo.

It’s too late, anymore, for latches or key codes.

You strike him to stone with a glass of hurled milk,

poke the shards, grown doughy

with so much water, through a grate under the street,

but they cling to your wet fingers like resin.

You have to shake them, shake them loose.

Now, perhaps he’ll rise severally from the sewer,

tear through the countryside with his brothers, stomp villagers.

Your shilly-shallying carries off everyone.

You clasp the phone, tell him: Don’t lie.

Your skin pricks in the super-heated air.

Her lips are white.

She’s so gullible.

Jacobs recent head
 
MIRIAM C. JACOBS is a alumnus of the University of Chicago and teaches college writing, literature and humanities. Jacobs is the editor of Eyedrum Periodically, the art/literature journal of Eyedrum Art & Music Gallery, Atlanta. Her poetry has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, The East Coast Literary Review, Record Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Bluestem: the Art and Literary Journal of Eastern Illinois University, The King’s English, and Oklahoma Today, among other publications. Her chapbook of poetry, The Naked Prince, was published by Fort!/Da? Books in September 2013.

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