The Witch Series

Ritual Against Separation

Take one of her leopard

print high heels, and one of his

long seldom worn dress shoes.

Hang them out the bedroom window

on the extra clothesline from the shed,

so they dance in the breeze.

Once a week, pull them up, hand over hand,

so you can stuff more hair into each toe box,

hair you’ve been collecting from his hairbrush,

her hairbrush, stuffing his into her shoe,

hers into his, then lint from each of their

sweaters, and any loose threads you can pull

when you hang their wash on the line.

Each time, lower them down

a little closer to the bushes limning

the house, until you see a swirl of

grass beginning, soon mosses

and feathers too, mingling

with parental flotsam, each shoe

transformed into an aerie house

for tiny eggs that will give birth

to baby birds, all beak and need,

their cries a tenderness, a sun burst,

a glitter cascade, almost unbearable

in the fullness of its gladness.

Watch the parents guard them,

feed them, and teach them

how to fly, their larger bodies

dipping below, and bumping up

the smaller, until the currents catch

them and they glide. Call your

father Carolina Wren, House 

Sparrow, Nuthatch, call your mother his

mate. Tie the ropes in a triple

knot, and hope for the best.