You abducted me
at age three.
To stop me crying,
you made me a picture of my mother
for my bedroom wall.
You cut up her photograph,
the only one we had,
and turned her into a witch,
one of the traditional kind, with warts,
and really long fingernails.
You told me stories,
told me she wanted to hurt me,
to keep me from you;
my father – so you rescued me.
When I fell asleep,
the witch grew bigger,
became a giant wicker doll,
moving behind me,
trying to sweep me under the hem
of her skirts, my mothers face
shaped in plaited straw.
Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe is a Poet and Mum from Dukinfield. She has an MA in Poetry from Bath Spa University. Her work has appeared in Magma, Curly Mind, Clear Poetry, Lakeview Journal, Interpreter’s House, Picaroon Poetry and The Lake amongst others. She also enjoys wargaming, painting models and scrapbooking.
Lonesome October Lit 