In Broomstick, a witch confesses all—her first love affair, how she discovered her powers, how she has used them. A completely unsentimental moralist who knows everything about the human heart—having been both its victim and avenger all her long life—she metes out inexorable justice, immune to our pleas for mercy, cackling at our excuses. In Broomstick, whiners wind up in casseroles.
Premiering at New Jersey Repertory Theatre in September 2013
. . . No, my dear, don’t be alarmed.
It’s just a little game. You won’t be harmed.
And even if you are, I know some tricks
to reattach a severed finger, fix
a foot that’s lost a toe or two . . . or three.
I’m teasing you. But after all, ask me,
who really needs ten fingers, all those toes?
If we were talking . . . oh, let’s say—a nose.
Now you lose that, okay, I’d understand
if you thought things had gotten out of hand.
It’s not like we got extra ones to spare
the way we do with eyes and ears. A pair
of anything, you can afford to lose
the first when there’s a second still to use.
A nose, though, there’s not much to take its place,
at least not sitting there, the middle of your face.
So yeah, I might be slow to sympathize
with someone lost just one of his two eyes.
It comes to noses, though, there ain’t no “just.”
You lose your nose and make a little fuss,
well, that’s to be expected, I suppose,
seeing you lost your one and only nose.
But these shenanigans about a toe
or two—you still got eight, nine others, though.
So what you say we play our little game
and let’s not worry who we gonna blame
things go wrong and don’t turn out so good?
Mean the world to me, it really would.
Image: Luis Ricardo Falero, “Witches Sabbath