Devil's Stepchild

 

I hadn’t realized who I had turned into until the first flake

of green skin fell into the boiling brew. My hands

were grasping a large wooden spoon

but my fingers, distorted in arthritic directions,

reminded me of when my muscle tone spoke volumes

and my name was the Prince of Promise; one day exalted

and the next, synthetically installed as the Witch

of the Worst. Wicked in mind and wild

with the spirit of the devil; Mephistopheles

is no match. I can conjure up your demons, with a follicle

of hair. A drop of blood

is just as good, but creating these catastrophes

is a distant

equidistant of a former life. I had a wife in mind,

but another, less desirable one had been set aside for me,

by my father. I only wish to make him proud. Yet, I haven’t produced

a potion puissant enough to project me back

to the Middle road. Perhaps, the Prince of Promiscuity

would be a much better title for such an unsuitable

suitor. My defective skills as a witch have made me the worst

possible remedy for any lost soul. A frog’s tongue here and a goat’s eye

there has worked before,

but these fairy tales will stay Grimm forever.