They weren’t the three
Macbeth witches—
Diana, Nancy, and Donna,
but they were scary as Hell
when we gathered
in Diana’s basement
afternoons during middle-school.
We played with our hormones
as kids have done since man
invented bottles.
Round and round and round—
prayed and wished it would
point to someone who would kiss you,
not point to someone who
would scrunch up her face
and say, “No Way.”
The deal was go behind
the big furnace in Diana’s basement
so you could do it or not.
No one would know
while the others waited
in the next room,
breathless for their fate.
I spun Diana first,
rangy and tall as a stork,
towered over my scrawny self.
That was easy.
We made a deal
behind the furnace,
pretend to kiss and lie,
like lots of others.
Then Nancy,
who had a big nose—
they called her Nosalich—
children cruel always.
We kissed and did not tell,
glad for no rejection.
Finally, Donna.
She said no to me,
the true witch of the three.
She was the sexpot.
Everyone knew she had done
more than kiss.
Later a baby out of wedlock
when you could still say that.
Wonder if teens in basements now
still spin their futures
behind the furnace of their hearts?
Originally published in Terror House Magazine