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ON HAVING BEEN WARTHOGS we braid up the bright plasticky manes of the bright rubber ponies, set their curls before we cram them down the castle dungeon trapdoor, their snouts caving. we pull every red ingredient from grandma’s fridge doors and ant-flecked cabinets, mix them in her yolk-colored bowl, call this hexing. do it weekly. we parade down to the withered strip yard no one mows, five spins counterclockwise, flinging liquid from the crystal decanter filched from the basement, call this circle of doom. cold things are sweet things, worchester sauce is a red thing, things in the dark are no things. lay wishes upon it. do it weekly.
Perry Levitch
