You were the only grandmother I knew
who kept her hair long:
grey-white and slicked back
in a tight knot against your skull
with one black streak above your ear.

During your last visit the bun broke loose,
mane toppling down your spine.
My seven-year-old self peeked behind you,
expecting to see spiders
creeping out of the hoary webbing,
awaiting your command to crawl
into the tv set
my pillowcase
the toilet bowl,
hatching spider babies
until their army seized the whole house
and drove me out.

But instead,
it was your legs walking toward me,
your fingers clawing up my arm,
your lipstick-smudged mouth invading,
fogging my glasses,
whisper-growling:
Don’t look at me like that!
You’re lucky your mother’s upstairs
or I’d put the paddle on ya.
I think I would have preferred
the spiders.

Later, you took your cigarettes outside
and sat beneath the window.
Smoke drifted up the pane,
and I imagined you stirring it forth
from a gurgling cauldron
that sparked and seethed–
its smoky potion scent
of cobra venom and boiled hearts
lingering in your
witch’s locks.