Glinda Tours the Tiny House

Its changeable curb
appeal is easy to see —
the shallow sink (free of dishes),
the fold-down desk, (unable
to do too much).

Up a ladder to room enough
for one and a half, not a bed
room, a room full of bedding.
Throw the sheet back
and it drapes the kitchen,
blocks the triangle shower.

Unreal real estate, an inside-out
terrarium, where the view
is compacted, every angle
juts out just enough, one can
grow at a manageable speed,

or move to the lip of the cliff,
extend the drying rack,
dangle your delicates
dangerously close to the edge.
Glinda the Good Witch Arrives in Stars Hollow

The Gilmores put her up, enveloping her in a whirlwind of chatter and spun candy floss, Chinese takeout, and pizza, an entire fifty dollar grocery bill spent on wasabi peas, Cheetos, Twizzlers, Beef Jerky and Milk Duds. The girls eat like lost boys, like orphan children, as if everyone there is motherless, although the episode suggests otherwise. Suki will casserole and cookie them. They fancy dine on heirloom china on a regular basis.

Kirk delivers deep dish, his uniform more costume than a costumed Winky’s. As always, he is as serious as a Munchkin Mayor. They eat fast, and talk faster, they’re still starving, they go for ice cream, they decide they need waffles, they need midnight souffle.

The wandering wears them out, seems short to Glinda, a journey well-stocked, not half begun when it’s done. Not much later, they make popcorn, they fill the living room with bowls of snacks. Together, they watch Philadelphia Story, and wait for Katherine Hepburn to technicolor Cary Grant, to admit that Jimmy Stewart’s been the scarecrow all along. Nobody mentions Luke, or the tow truck driver.

On her way to bed, Rory kisses Glinda’s forehead, a benediction, a kiss of friendship, of protection. Lorelei sings her to sleep, a little off key, cleanly out of rhythm, so sincere that Glinda’s heart lifts into her throat. She thinks this place is like nowhere else, she thinks this place is no place like home.

~  ~  ~

Sarah Ann Winn’s poems, prose, and hybrid works have appeared in Five Points, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Massachusetts Review, among others. Her chapbooks include Field Guide to Alma Avenue and Frew Drive (Essay, 2016), Haunting the Last House on Holland Island, Fallen into the Bay (Porkbelly, 2016) and Portage (Sundress, 2015). Her first book, Alma Almanac, is forthcoming from Barrow Street Press in 2017. Visit her at or follow her @blueaisling.