& Memphis is out in Full Fang!
Skeletons skip down our pitted streets.
Whole families with matching hobo stipple
roam tragicomically through the sprawling
candy deserts: polka-dot bandanas
on sticks, flapping Chaplinesque shoes.
Unclaimed pumpkins pile high
behind razor wire. The air's thick
with caw & trouble. Our porch light's out
but we stay in, listening to the festive cackle
of semiautomatics in the autumn night.
Some faceless Handmaids do a spooky
hopscotch in a Walgreens parking lot.
Two drunk men in tiger masks loll from
the window of a passing truck to tell some
Handmaid she's "thicc as shit." Anyway,
Witches are back! They straddle plastic
brooms—streaming
across the moon's bright knuckle: hedge
witches & wicked witches. Waves
of Sabrinas: blonde bobs, black
headbands, whole hexes of freckles!
Here come the Elphabas & Endoras,
the Elviras & Elsas. Even a couple
of Baba Yagas—bewitched huts
strutting forth on sexy chicken legs!
So what if it's a bit
more wink than Wand.
We've stopped scaring ourselves
on purpose, stopped wearing our Weirds
on our Outsides. My sweetie's spilled on
the couch as Melted Clock. I park myself
on the dark stoop as Empty Pyrex Bowl.
According to the Post-it Note on my face,
my nickname is No-Treats-for-the-Wicked.
I'm a weird white lady on an unlit porch.
No one dare approach this childless abode—
not for phantom candy. Certainly
not for clarification.