She sprang out of the pine plank table
at Nana’s house, a witch with a rope
around her neck and all the havoc spilling
out encoded in our DNA. I studied
a dipping barometer and felt dirty beneath
my clothes, a bone fingered and sucked.
Mother favored gray for me, not that
it mattered a flip. Elder brother carried
our witch sewn in a vein in his thigh.
I did not think she hammered there.
They set a match to sixteen candles.
She was hanged not burnt, he announced,
pressure falling, needle notching
toward dimensions where a witch
is hanging still, her ankles stretched
longer than human, she had six
children, her name was Lydia. He started
the song for ha-ha. Never been kissed,
crooned first brother, lost count, cracked
the other, sally, sally, I muttered while
mother’s mouth goes darker and
tighter. Hurry up and blow. Everyone
laughed when the flames died out.