The first time I called myself a ‘Witch’ was themost magical moment of my life. – Margot Adler
Every morning, she sips on an innocent Satan, and during
the day, she spills dirty smoke into her people’s faces
when she splits her tomb-like womb open.
She reigns over the palace with her long neck like
a stuffed giraffe, mistaking her family
members for sugary leaves she can chew on.
Her half-dead husband, too effete to
recognise himself, spends his days behind
newspapers he doesn’t read. If ever she feels guilty,
she casts her eyes with purple rings on
heaven for a couple of blessings. But it is believed
that bad people cannot see their own evil
and God can barely help them.
Feeling their ears ring loud with silence, with
what belongs to them out of their reach, her people
struggle to find their fates and faces in mirrors
that reflect only the infinite
grey of sins they haven’t committed.
If anyone succeeds to hold something between
his fingers, The Lanka Witch cuts his brave wrist
off, flipping her long, stringy black hair in satisfaction.
Being mocked by laughing stocks, by well-dressed
and perfumed neighbours with intentions
greener than green, the poor lambs swear at themselves
for being born in a place where
a joyful breath is their most temporary privilege.
While the witch’s long, pointy face is already
an eyesore, her absence aggravates the situation by
releasing from everyone’s pale heart a handful of old
and bent dreams, with them rolling helter-
skelter like the broken songs of paralysed cuckoos.
Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur has appeared in several literary magazines, including Transcendence, Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Black-Listed Magazine, Kalkion and Red Fez. He was nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Web. Hailing from Mauritius he also writes in Creole. Sometimes he just wants to give it up all and become a billionaire.