THE FATHER OF THE WITCH

 

— in which —

a proud papa,

having read “Porphyria’s Lover” six times

and

having seen “Rosemary’s Baby” seven times,

is pleased to report

the success of his experiment.

 

“Where did we go wrong?” the woman cries.

How like my wife to trust the poor clichés

Of Dr. Freud. Do you read Dr. Spock

Or Dr. Cagliostro? Dr. Seuss

Or Dr. Nostradamus? The good wife

Was always half-agreeing with those slobs

Who told us “what an imp” our daughter was—

As if an Imp is cute! I realized

Our restive girl was right to run away

(Or fly away?) from our suburban block,

Where school and church conspired to seduce

My changeling child to duller paths of life.

“Lord knows where she is these days,” she sobs,

While I smile—for I’m not so sure He does!

 

The “mischief” that they caught her at, of course,

Was nothing to the misdemeanors done

As soon as that fat cop had brought her home.

(That very night the station-house burned down!)

He should have let her study without fear

Of interruption by the law. And she did worse

Than that to those who crossed her, like the one

Who made such vicious fun of my last poem.

(He disappeared the night she left town.)

A bed is always waiting for her here.

 

“She was such a good girl,” neighbors sigh.

Forgive them, Nick, they know not that they lie.

But let those who know better call her bad—

Even a witch has someone she calls Dad.