The Witch In Springtime
My heart is frozen leaves pulled from winter's silvering river
And my blood does not flow, it gusts.
Under the dogwood tree, on the thick rising grass,
I have drawn my pentagram with tar.
You can see my breath in chilly puffs against every falling petal--
They shatter like dropped teacups before they even reach the ground.
Step into my ring of frost and touch my face--
Losing that hand is a small price to pay.
Put away your stupid silver dagger--
I am just a girl,
Though I have been old since I was small.
It is almost Mother's Day.
Mine said, "Child, here are your kittens,
And here are your runic stones, all inside this sturdy burlap bag.
Slip into it as if it were a christening dress."
But when the water came,
My sisters and I were nothing but panic and claws
And so we are today,
Froward souls walking up and down upon the earth.
One spring past, I stole a bride.
Her dress matched my floe, and the already encroaching swans;
She spoke to me such vulgarities that the tips of my ears turned pink.
So charming was she, that for the first time, I loved summer and my wrongly-gotten prize both the same.
All I can say now is,
Damn the swans.
I am the witch in springtime--
My heart is thawing leaves woven by orioles, my nestlings my various and virulent hatreds of anything fresh and new.
I long for what I cannot hold.
I burn for what I cannot have.
I dreamt I saw birds filling the sky down all the lengthening days,
And they said,
"Where is all your magic now, old witch?
"Gone" was all I could think to tell them.
photo: Jordana Brewster