Three Poems from Witch Craft Magazine
Bitches of the Drought
All night we dreamt of its garnets tumbling across our tongues.
We filled up our sinks and filled them
again and everything that passed through us was
clear as singing bowls.
We stumbled about gummy-lipped apologies, our backs heavy
with cucumbers. We wanted a polished mirror to walk on.
Each time we spoke, whole taxonomies of wishes flew out.
Iceplant brats, every last one. This is what we discarded.
This is the saltcedar dust of our shame.
If I say the sun made me do it, what then?
The problem was all the mirrors
Blue mirrors, concave glass.
I was a freckle on a bitten lip.
I was your new wave sad eyes, I was a cupcake
atop a gazelle, I shimmered and starved. The problem
was the sounds of the mirrors bending
forward and backward. That electronic light
all up in our pituitaries, I can't even.
I was a mitten and you were a desert to crack in.
You rendered me splat
on the carpet; I said yes please.
The problem was the doors. They were always
open. I was a neon emergency.
You were a panic of silk.
I came back to get out of the rain, but inside the storm swung its pendulum
I was your second peg.
When you felled me like a domino I gave you
thirteen hallelujahs. Too small to know I was wrong,
but you were the only mirror looping
above me. The weight of you a planet.
You and your homemade gravity
giftwrapped like a treasure instead
of a sentence, of a shackle. I spun
and spun but a planet I was not.
Meanwhile you had already graduated
to the sun, and I was fucked.
I looked upon my distorted
reflection and I called her sister.
Originally published in Witch Craft Magazine, Volume 2, March 2016