#witch poetry
I’m told I come off as Intimidating
(If you start from a point of likely to hit back, they might not throw the first one)
And that it’s Spooky how I always know where you are
(I know people and their mood by their identifying gait, it was the only warning some days)
And that my silent way of walking is something between Creepy and What Are You Trying To Prove
(I know how to cry silently too, without even shaking the bed)
I’m not like that, really.
You might wonder why my precious things are kept in boxes so easily fit into my car, the car that has three days worth of food and clothing at all times. You say I’m like a girl scout, Prepared.
(Prepared is not the same as Frightened by an inevitable future)
I take my shoes off at the door, religiously, but do not require you to also be Barefoot in my house.
(there was a time when I never took them off until he was asleep, or gone)
All those adjectives can be combined into a word that rhymes with Bitch.
So be warned: if you choose to hunt witches, know that this one has been hunted once already
And only one of us is left standing.
November comes, and November goes
With the last red berries, and the first white snows.
When nights come early and dawn comes late,
And there’s ice in the bucket and frost by the gate.
The fires burn and the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest until next Spring.
— November, by Elizabeth Coatsworth.
Artwork:November, by Kelsey Garrity Riley.
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SALT
Were things good then?
Yes. They were good.
Did you know they were good?
At the time? Your time?
No, because I was worrying
or maybe hungry
or asleep, half of those hours.
Once in a while there was a pear or a plum
or a cup with something in it,
or a white curtain, rippling,
or else a hand.
Also the mellow lamplight
in that antique tent,
falling on beauty, fullness,
bodies entwined and cherishing,
then flareup, and then gone.
Mirages, you decide:
everything was never.
Though over your shoulder there it is,
your time laid out like a picnic
in the sun, still glowing,
although it’s night.
Don’t look behind, they say:
You’ll turn to salt.
Why not, though? Why not look?
Isn’t it glittery?
Isn’t it pretty, back there?
─ Margaret Atwood, Dearly
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