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The Bed Witch

When I was a kid,
broomstraw cowlick
flying away,
she hid under the bed - -
ready to bite if I sailed
the ripe ripples that
nuged my bedeviled dreams.
Wakeful, listening,
I'd hear her stir,
crouching in the lint,
twisting strands of my hair
around knobby knuckles
and clicking fuzzy teeth.
Beneath my covers
I'd freeze,

stopping air
and waiting for the dark
death of sleep.
Then she'd creep out,
midnight breath stirring my fear,
and I'd clinch everything.
When I was a kid
the bed witch ate me alive,
every night.

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