(trans/la/tion (n) to shift a word or phrase from one language to another giving it
     equivalent meaning; to change from one state, place, or form to another; the linear
     movement of a body in which every point of the body follows a straight path and does
     not rotate.) 

We knocked her down. She was lovely waisted
as she fell,
and she spun

down like a maple pod,
two arms stretched from the hard center.

This is what we wanted

because we were afraid. Ding dong, we sang.

Ding dong.

But she was not yet
dead, and so we sang no further.

“Why,” the young ones asked, “why.” And “Why!”
and “Why?” We didn’t immediately

answer. For a moment, anyway, we’d forgotten ourselves
watching, as we had so long, her downward spiral,

but one of us finally spoke, and the rest corroborated
his story. The fact,
we’ll admit, is we were disturbed
by the pleasure she took from our men.

At the market, we watched her, she had no shame.
Snatched Stan Samson’s eye right along
—and he was not alone, we knew—
with the optic nerve and, still smiling, of course—imagine

the pleasure in that pretty package:
brown eye, in her purse now, the nerve
—sauntered on, plucky as you will.

She drank, we supposed, sangria*, by the bucket,

and all the eyes were on her—

some in her pocket, some in her purse,
some wrapped in a hanky and stuffed down her shirt—

all the eyes were on her when she cocked
her head and wet her lips
and drank. (Note: We say it’s bleeding.) Awful

to think she enjoyed it so much,

so don’t ask why, we told the young ones.
They are watching now and asking
no longer why. They know now

what it is all about. “Oh!” They say. “My goodness,
look! Look at the witch!” enjoying

now, just perfect, her fall.