Witch of the East

The Wicked Witch of the East is

killed as the tale begins—we don’t get

to see her face. To face the plots

that landed on me, I kept tapping

my red velcro sneakers together.

It felt closer to practice than magic —

Do you play the violin?

No. But do you know I tried

to embrace my wickedness? Slurped

that bittersweet black potion of roots,

red dates, and seeds, believing it

would flesh me out. Slipped

into a cheongsam that shimmered

ruby and learned two tones to echo

back to men on the street.

And do you know I tried to efface my

wickedness? Slouched into an s and

kept my head down, made the sign

of the cross before biting into my

Marmite and margarine sandwiches.

Wrote in the margins with invisible ink —

I didn’t know white ink would show itself

in our equatorial air. When one letter

disappears, east can become eat.

Before my great-aunt died,

she asked for lanti ek diri.

Black lentil soup and basmati rice.

There are no Munchkins in this story.

The only cyclone my people speak

of is Carol. After the storm,

my mother ate fist cakes

that sank in her stomach and my

father swallowed pithi.

Dear brain, help me—

why must I anglicize everything?

But what was your baby language?

Do you know that when my

parents say someone’s in China

they mean they’re fast asleep?