Incantations
As the world got bigger, the specialties shrunk, each witch taking smaller and smaller territories.
The witch of rosemary, her sisters of dust and thread, gentle, delicate, in every crevice of daily life.
Where the Catholics had saints, the witches grew without statues – unholy, this is where the wicked comes from.
Thread knots, dust chokes – within us, the spells take root between our ribs, coaxed to bone with whispers and earth.
In the life of a witch, is it all wicked?
Within us, questions. Within us, cauldrons. Within us, magic, dark with joy.
In the life of a witch – In the life of a witch – In the life of a witch –
Hold still. Let the incantations answer the noise within you.
The witch of death holds the smallest moment. She is with us at the end. Her book of spells nothing but names and dates and times, magic in their lines her sisters cannot hold.
But we are hers in our last moment, small in the world, infinite for us, unholy, wicked, stretching out to the horizon forever.
