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My mother, in disguise

Rosalie Hendon

She was a gladiator,
brandishing sword and shield
in the arena/kickball field
when I studied Rome in third grade.

She was all the witches:
good, bad, in between.
The witch who heals.
The witch who protects.
The witch who speaks out.

She was the goddess Isis,
lined her eyes with kohl,
draped beads over her hair,
winged cape shining gold.

At 24, her crowning glory:
Dorothy’s house boxed her torso,
complete with the witch’s green legs
poking from under the brick.

My mother has always known the freedom
in becoming someone else.
She knows the magic
in embodying a goddess,
taking on the mantle of healer,
the diadem of leader.

The power of assuming power:
the rise of the chin, the proud shoulders.
The taste of authority,
the divine right to lead.
The magic in your hands,
the world at your fingertips.

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