Anita's Guilt

I shan’t have given you those fifth, sixth, or whatever senses,
I shan’t have chanted spells for you to know what it’s like
To feel the way I do. I ought to have just been content
Reading poetry or reciting Shakespeare’s Tempest with you.
I was tired of defining things all the time whenever you’d ask,
What’s a witch? What’s ‘like’? What’s ‘mind’?
So I thought it was best to bestow these upon you…

Oh, Timothy, you were more than just the Johnson’s scarecrow,
You’re more than rags and filth, you’re brain was well balanced
Though your head may be full of dirt. You kept me company
Throughout the dreary summer and you learned my ways faster
Than anyone has been with me before. Don’t believe me when
I said you were just some rotting spider’s nest. Forgive me.
I didn’t mean to hit your soiled shoulders, break your straw arms
And fracture your wooden spine to fall feet over into the stream.

I conjured you out of boredom, yet you grew on me
More than I’d wish to confess. You do not know how terrifying
It was for me to destroy my favorite creation, to let you go
When you have pleaded so much to stay. I recognized your
Tears on your faceless head, your sighs and strong resolve
As you stirred my heart out of callous selfishness.

Please forgive me, Timothy. I had to go away. Surely seasons
Will come to pass, even my great Prince will certainly turn to dust.
Do not fret for there will be no pain from now on. You will no more
Hold memories of the past summer, as I will forever carry yours.


After Keith Roberts’ short story, Timothy