​The Witch
ELIZABETH WILLIS

A witch can charm milk from an ax handle.
 
A witch bewitches a man's shoe.
 
A witch sleeps naked.
 
"Witch ointment" on the back will allow you to fly through the air.
 
 A witch carries the four of clubs in her sleeve.
 
A witch may be sickened at the scent of roasting meat.
 
A witch will neither sink nor swim.
 
When crushed, a witch's bones will make a fine glue.
 
A witch will pretend not to be looking at ber own image in a window.
 
A witch will gaze wistfully at the glitter of a clear night.
 
A witch may take the form of a cat in order to sneak into a good man's
chamber.
 
A witch's breasts will be pointed rather than round, as discovered in
the trials of the 1950s.
 
A powerful witch may cause a storm at sea.
 
With a glance, she will make rancid the fresh butter of her righteous
neighbor.
 
Even our fastest dogs cannot catch a witch-hare.
 
A witch has been known to cry out while her husband places inside her
the image of a child.
 
A witch may be burned for tying knots in a marriage bed.
 
A witch may produce no child for years at a time.
 
A witch may speak a foreign language to no one in particular.
 
She may appear to frown when she believes she is smiling.
 
If her husband dies unexpectedly, she may refuse to marry his brother.
 
A witch has been known to weep at the sight of her own child.
 
She may appear to be acting in a silent film whose placards are
missing
 
In Hollywood the sky is made of tin.
 
A witch makes her world of air, then fire, then the planets. Of
cardboard, then ink, then a compass.
 
A witch desires to walk rather than be carried or pushed in a cart.
 
When walking a witch will turn suddenly and pretend to look at
something very small.
 
The happiness of an entire house maybe ruined by witch hair
touching a metal cross.
 
The devil does not speak to a witch. He only moves his tongue.
 
An executioner may find the body of a witch insensitive to an iron spike.
 
An unrepentant witch may be converted with a frttle lead in the eye.
 
Enchanting witchpowder may be hidden in a girl's hair.
 
When a witch is hungry, she can make a soup by stirring water with
her hand.
 
I have heard of a poor woman changing herself into a pigeon.
 
At times a witch will seem to struggle against an unknown force
stronger than herself.
 
She will know things she has not seen with her eyes. She will have
opinions about distant cities.
 
A witch may cry out sharply at the sight of a known criminal dying of
thirst.
 
She finds it difficult to overcome the sadness of the last war.
 
A nightmare is witchwork.
 
The witch elm is sometimes referred to as "all heart." As in, "she was
thrown into a common chest of witch elm."
 
When a witch desires something that is not hers, she will slip it into her glove.
 
An overwhelming power compels her to take something from a rich
man's shelf.
 
I have personally known a nervous young woman who often walked in
her sleep.
 
Isn't there something witchlike about a sleepwalker who wanders
through the house with matches?
 
The skin of a real witch makes a delicate binding for a book of common prayer.
 
When all the witches in your town have been set on fire, their smoke
will fill your mouth. It will teach you new words. It will tell you what
you've done.
​
​Source: poetryfoundation.org

      The Want of You
        ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ
             A hint of gold where the moon will be; 
             Through the flocking clouds just a star or two; 
             Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed, 
             And oh! the crying want of you.

The Red Poppy
LOUISE GLÜCK
​The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.

​The scent of pig is faint tonight
as the lime trees hang their heads against gradations of blue,
 
looking at the lone suitcase in the middle of the farmyard
with a sense of solidarity. Also forgotten.
 
Its owner never once looked up at them and exclaimed
I was still soft-fingered when I planted you.
 
In the plane, her gaze rests on a flock of cloud-birds,
pinkish purple with elongated necks, rests
 
on the plane’s wing-tip colored pink by the sun.
Her head is heavy with this childhood cargo,
 
like the hawk that usually flies between or above their branches,
found skimming the ground with its catch of mouse or mole,   
 
or the barge that passes every day at four, its metal nose
just out of the water, while empty at eight, its sleek sides
 
flash signals to those on shore. Later, on the highway
a row of trucks lit like orange squares in the setting sun--
 
a colony of ants each with a piece of chrysanthemum
on their backs—begins to reassemble memories;
 
the petals become lining, the shape of the flower is lost,
so that years later, looking at an old photograph,
 
she will not remember the names of cousins and uncles
but the exact bend in the river behind them, the pattern of trees.

​Source: Poetry Foundation

​I still can’t get it right
BY KATHRYN STRIPLING BYER
 
I don’t know. I still can’t get it right,
the way those dirt roads cut across the flats
and led to shacks where hounds and muddy shoats
skulked roundabouts. Describing it sounds trite
as hell, the good old South I love to hate.
The truth? What’s that? How should I know?
I stayed inside too much. I learned to boast
of stupid things. I kept my ears shut tight,
as we kept doors locked, windows locked,
the curtains drawn. Now I know why.
The dark could hide things from us. Dark could see
what we could not. Sometimes those dirt roads shocked
me, where they ended up: I watched a dog die
in the ditch. The man who shot him winked at me.