A bedtime story

“Something inside the antique mirror haunts you.
She has talons that can claw your eyes out,” I say to Teddy.
Just repeat, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. It’s her dismal death chant.

Then, flush that pretty commode and she’ll grab and pull you through.
“I can feel her breathe beside me,” said dear, dear Betty.
A gentle slumber gone grim, after that bathroom rant.

Upon the witch’s special stake, a young Mary Worth was brewed
Then, like hot English tea, she was served to the twenty.
Excited, the sun leaves for home, and my candlelight’s growing scant.

Her scorched face looks like Quentin’s scraped knee, it’s true.
“Protect us from that dreadful witch!” shout my children, the many.
Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, my household’s miraculous chant.

I whisper to that dreadful phantom, humming that hymn, “Where are you?”
“Don’t taunt! She’ll get upset!” says my youngest, Little Penny.
I offer my softest bathroom prayer, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” I pant.

My world is darker than a bathroom, sick like the flu,
Slippery axes struck all of Olive and Ernest, Victor and Benny
Each plucked, cut clean, like a rotting plant.