FOR BURNING
You’re a witch, he told me once, but he meant it good.
Then punched the windshield until it buckled, spiderwebbing
around his fist. I thought I had the gift, but all I had was salt,
black smudge, smoke. What lack, what trick. I casted shadows & aspersions,
he punched the windshield until it buckled. Spiderwebbed
veins thumping in his arm. His body was a gift, kaleidoscope
of black, of oak. Lack of light, trick of shadow, power cast
as poison. More than once I slipped into his bed when I belonged to another,
vain jump into his hands, his gift of kaleidoscopic body.
So many faces refracted in a cut glass of whiskey, so much
noise. Once I slipped into his bed when I belonged to another,
then another, and another. A madness of matrimonies,
so many faces refracted in a cut glass of whiskey. Such bliss
in the gift of his fist. I thought he was a home, but he was only sand,
a ruin of waves, another, then another. An insanity of sorceries.
You’re a witch, he told me once, but I misunderstood.
Published by Pembroke, no. 52, 2020.
