Cursed by a Witch. (Prose Poem)

I was cursed at birth by the witch Sycorax.

My parents told me this on my 19th birthday.

Because she had cursed me to die before the age of 18.

Why did she curse me, I asked them.

Because she wanted to buy our house

and we wouldn't sell to her, they said.

We had a whimsical house,

built out of sandalwood

and painted with saffron.

The second story was larger 

than the first story.

But from the outside

there was no second story.

Flying carpets covered the ceilings.

The ghost of Sargon of Akkad

haunted my toy box --

sending all my wooden soldiers

to conquer the birdbath in the backyard.

Our icebox led directly

to the North Pole.

Kris Kringle came to dinner

frequently -- he hated cooked beets.

When my parents grew old and ridiculous

they sold the house without telling me.

By then I was far away,

sailing stones in the Gobi.

They sold our beautiful whimsical house

to another witch, named Nannie Dee.

She, in turn, made it into a tavern filled with pine trees.

I never forgave my old and ridiculous parents

for selling the house from under me like that.

I could have bought it from them;

for I had become a potent thaumaturge by then.

I could spin gold from pottery shards,

and bred Finkies for their dewclaws.

When I learned my old home was gone

I began to lose interest in magic.

I gave away my onyx signet ring, 

broke my ivory baton in two,

and neglected my red squill plants 

until they dried up and blew away.

I sold my Finkies to Ahasver.

Today I make and sell sandglasses

in a small shop by the seashore.

I weave dried kelp into bags and purses.

I've married a stout widow

who cooks good bean soup.

And so I grow old and ridiculous 

with her.