Six by six and nine by nine
Honeyed tongue and honey wine
Rowan, ash, yew, and alder
Salt ring around the altar
Red as marrow, black as pitch
Words and wyrd at crossroads stitch
North wind, south wind, moon and sun
With midnight oath Hers become
I’ve never been tempted by the idea of immortality (surely all those years must drag one into another at some point, who wants to hang around for that long?) and I’ve never cared much for physical beauty or youth (I prefer the anonymity of mediocrity and look forward with eagerness to my first gray hair) but housing prices these days are just outrageous, it’s almost criminal, and thus if I’m guaranteed a little cottage in the woods, all paid up and legally mine, then sure I could use my witchy wiles to lure a couple kids a year into my cauldron and cook up whatever spells you want, my singing’s not half bad, does the talking cat come with the cottage or is he extra?
i’m not really good with stuff like crystals and magic spells, essential oils and sigils and shit, i’m really more of a bleed and weep kind of girl, a burn your fingers on matches ’cause the flame’s too pretty kind of girl, so if my third eye is sealed shut or my crown chakra’s all fucked up, or whatever, maybe i should just cut it open, you know, peel back the skin so the smooth white bone shows through, maybe i should forget about meditation or yoga, just solve the problem once and for all with the cold reliability of a blade, that’s a religion i can get behind, that’s a god worth swearing by, you know?
“Stormborn”
she rejoices through the sky
raindrops pelting her bare skin
lightning dancing above and below
amid thunder she soars upward
and with a twist turns, falls
down and down and down
at the last moment lifting her head
to rise and rise and rise again
Only Fragments 