The Witch’s Child, Wicked and Wonderful

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Bedtime Stories
Lilian Moore

“Tell me a story,”
Says Witch’s Child.

“About the Beast
So fierce and wild.

About a ghost
That shrieks and groans.

A skeleton
That rattles bones.

About a Monster
Crawly-creepy.

Something nice
To make me sleepy.”

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All of these photographs are from 2002. I was six-years-old.

 

This is my mother’s favorite poem. She seemed to recite it constantly when my sister and I were children. I still know the lines by heart. The words make me feel wicked and wonderful.

The poem lived in a well-worn, fabric-covered book where it sprawled across yellowed pages in thick, black typeface. I visit it from time to time to breathe in its musty scent, unchanged, though I have changed. Its smell sends a tingling rush of energy through my skin.

Language is a powerful magic to bridge the gap between minds. Words, like a million little moments frozen in photographs, allow me to express exactly who I am.

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