A Spinster in Oz
When she doesn’t remarry,
her father calls her
an
old maiden aunt,
a
spinster,
spinning to earn her
keep,
tapping a treadle
on grandma’s antique
wheel.
Mostly, though, she likes
to spin on grass,
turning slowly
during
mother may I
faster
when
the big kid twirls her
or
when she rolls down Rose Mount Hill.
She even spins her swing,
circling
up chain for a dizzy unravel.
When she jumps,
she
feels like a witch swirling dust on arrival,
not Glinda the good
or the wickedness of East
or West
but a fright nonetheless.
A dress.
Not
shoes.
Not
socks.
Perhaps a hat or scarf in
winter
or a bathrobe at night.
warm
with her little dog
beside her
she feels strong,
telling him,
You
have no power here!
Be
gone!
Before
a twister drops a house on you, too!
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