I’m a Witch!
It is standard for women
to say this
kind of blithe nonsense
flirtatiously nowadays.
Or maybe it was
always so.
Trying to get off
with the blacksmith’s son in 1648,
peeking through her lashes, potato-sack
dress just so.
She ended seated
in the village pond.
Yet I always believe in her, whichever
woman is witching
or believe, at least, in the chance
that she may be the one
true witch I’ve met in my life
and ask her really… you are?
‘Cause I’m careful of these
curses, infatuation spells and so on
but then there’s the other
side of it,
the Bed side of it, because there’s that too
to consider with a witch…
Or maybe
I am the one seated this time, watching her
quiet movements around a room,
the late afternoon submerges us
in pond-like gloom, she is older,
I am too and she looks for her spectacles,
straightens a pile of books, takes one,
begins to read. And I think
who are you,
where did you come from
and which kind of magic woman are you?
Close your book now,
cross the empty space between us
and answer me.
Which kind?
Which?
