My brother feared the Wicked Witch,
hid behind a brown naugahyde chair
in the living toom of the single-wide
trailer we called home

Covered his eyes when she appeared
in a flash of flame, and cackling smoke.
Breathed a great sigh when she melted
and was gone with a splash of water
and a song

My sister feared birds for thirty years 
after watching Hitchcock’s little flick.
Until one day, she started feeding them
in her backyard, and choked back her
fright of wings and beaks one
bag of seed at a time

My mother told me I once feared bridges
That crossing large bodies of water made
me duck in the Chrysler’s floorboard until
we had reached the other side

Somewhere, the memory of swaying
and drowning disappeared with
every bridge I burned amidst
cackling smoke and  flapping of wings