The Witch Series

Book of Shadows

Her book. This book,

spanning all the time she’s been allotted.

All of them neatly folded and tucked

between two of its pages –

Father, so long Dad,

so long, his legs, his darkness,

hang(s) out bookmarking gloom.

All of it yellowed by beer,

river water running under the bridge

as he hurled himself down and slipped under.

Mother, hello Mother, saying goodbye,

her phantom breast, its tumor shadowing

a line across her chest. Her kitchen simmering

with delicious mystery, kindnesses from

strange men, her wild waitress friends.

Their separation, the chasms it multiplied --

his family’s disapproval, their withdrawal,

the brittle crackling facts of abandonment.

Catholic school, Sister This, Father That,

their stories about martyrs 
bloodying page after page,

the few teachers who took 
an interest in her, the poetry

she wrote, a string of A pluses 
strung up like prayer flags.

Witches she knew and admired.

Witches she loved and feared.

Animal familiars. Animal tutors and chaperones.

Dogs and cats, foxes, hares, elks, bears, elephants,

her fear of mice. Crows, always crows 
disposing of carrion, gathering 
shiny things, squawking at the moon.

Then the rituals, her intentions

floating away from her,

seeding the future, her hands tying knots

for stability, a candle burning against

the wall, the flash of residual ashes

that let her let go, Loved ones on

moonlit nights, as they hung

from high branches,

twisting on the breeze,

tiny outlines of dollies

bearing messages

to the underworld,

litanies of hope, yearning,

praise and blessed be.

Little parcels weighed down

by rocks underground,

what needed or wanted burying.

Spells for babies wanted by friends, for babies

who had to be given back before birth,

love spells, sweet mingling of cells 
as they decompose, healing 
tokens of friendship and admiration, 
talismans for courage or protection,

planted in tree trunks around her house,

spells chanted over water, over food to

enhance its nourishment, over little heads

while they’re fast asleep, spells to ease the body,

lift it away from pain.

All her optimism and acceptance tucked into

this book’s many leaves, her life a wheel

turned by the earth’s steady compass.

She can feel herself growing lighter,

as the shadows take on weight.

The wildness, the weediness in her,

the roots reaching out from between

its pages, all of it flimsy and fleeting.

The sun moves across each day

in a woman’s life, leaving behind

this dance of dark upon light.

It feels to her like enough.