she blew in on rotten air
her eyes dark and bitter green
her lips the shade of plum…cresting a wave of lies
a virtual shroud dressing the whore of insecurity
and yes when I peered close I could see a smaller version of myself mirrored there
a poor child
yet in her case the ageing did not produce any smooth rose
but instead vinegar
and like broken branches
losing their way in a flourishing tree
she struggled grey and sharp
growling and gnawing at my children
her magic was ugly and took the long route….
her dirty paws tucked in their wet beds,
and poked at an abscess of miscommunication that grew in one little boys jaw
she led the way for dead mothers and zombies,
filing proudly past dreamcatchers….
tiny confused fingers waved, clawing at my throat, pulling at my feet,
a weak goodbye, off to the house of horrors,
yes it had nice curtains.
We watched with eyes as deep as lakes as she drove an axe through the tender trunk of Joey’s tree,
her jealousy shrill that there be a memory there of me.
Joey lives in my heart I said and the little ones trusted.
It is true.
We relied on love, you see, nurtured concepts of forgiveness.
We spoke of people having sadness like a fishing sinker, hanging from their heart
creating weight that deranges the mind
and causes strange and painful words to swing,
words that have the power to nestle in and fester
and we persevered with love , the only thing we really knew….
in the face of her shaking anxiety and awkward tyre slitting rage
until HE began to notice a pounding, swelling hepatitis,
and realised he was using her to kill himself
to distort his own aged and dogeared pain.
To give him credit then,
he didn’t linger much longer….
shearing through woody tangle
to extricate himself from the fever of her wailing sex.
Evil stepmothers belong only in fairy tales
they are not real
they do not exist…..not anymore
like tiny screeching demons that lift you by the hair
we faced her
and killed her