Practical Magic

There is a witch living in my neighborhood.

I don't know the house she lives in

but I can hear her chanting to the full moon;

casting spells into the darkness.

Perhaps the witch is the cat lady

living down the street,

surrounding herself with claws

and inviting ivy onto her gables.

But she keeps her words to herself,

and only stares blankly out to the street.

Maybe she's my next door neighbor,

complaining of sleepless nights

as she fetches her mail

in her pink fuzzy slippers every morning.

Does she lose her sleep

by finding herself in the backyard

muttering pagan rituals under the stars?

But the witch's voice

is not coated in catnip and smoke,

she does not sound like sleep deprivation,

only velvet,

pillow murmurs and cool comforter cloud dreams.

Sometimes she whispers in my window,

wisdom leaking through the screen,

saying things like,

"Do your homework, girly."

And I know she's right,

but still I sit at my desk,

night after night,

drawing hearts

around the names of each my beloveds.

The first time she did this,

I was so startled,

I ripped the paper in half!

And I knew in that moment,

that boy would never be the same.

Young girls are given chains and leashes

without knowing how to use them.

And even my tortured ignorant mouth has uttered the words "Boys are puppies that need to be trained."

But we need to learn to soften the whipcrack of our tongues and loosen the collar around their necks.

Young men's hearts are such fragile things:

made of

china,

porcelain,

venetian glass.

waiting to be broken

--asking to be broken.

But I can't help but wonder,

who at such a young age

asks for that kind of pain?

Having been wrapped in poison arms

and my ears licked by silver tongues,

I am no stranger

to the incidental invasion

of a trickster practicing his sport.

She knows that we all have tricks of our own trade,

waiting to test them out on any innocent passing our front door.

We're hoping if we shoot the right game that they'll stay for dinner.

There have been countless nights that I have spent

coughing my own ceramic beat up into someone else's hands,

knowing down to my bones

that the only protection for it

would be solitude.

I have been the duct tape girl,

trying to piece together each eggshell frame,

to put those damn horses and men to shame,

even when those around me insist I am just a peasant.

Still, I've tried to untangle those mangled clockwork pulses

without understanding I am wearing the same uniform

as the ones that carry a cat and nine tails

and have cramped cage waiting in their basement.

Spinning a cradle to trap those who have been hurt

makes for a lazy hunter

and simply re-opens any poorly sealed wounds.

Instead, I turn to the witch's words,

insisting that weaving a hammock for broken bones to heal

might leave enough space to quell the bared teeth.

Some nights, I whisper back to her,

"Does this make my ass look fat?"

But mostly questions about the heavens

and the chatter of animals and spirits.

She always answers with compassion,

icing bruises and patching up misunderstanding.

I asked her once,

after I heard her final prayer

why she prays to the moon

if the man in there

looks so sad

and she answered,

"You would be sad too

if embracing your closest companion

would kill millions."

Originally performed on 3/28/11

Originally written on 2/24/2011

Originally slammed on....

Backdraft

I read this less than an hour after it's completion. It wrote itself, mostly.

The fireman's wife will tell you,
my limbs were on fire the night we met.
dancing in the breeze
and licking the air
with a raging passion
that set your hands in casts for weeks.

My skin singed a new trail in your mind,
a path you walked carelessly
with no other shock than the delight

of setting your newly charred feet

on the earth that

would soon foster seeds for another wild disaster.

My eyes filled with a blaze,
an eruption of hue
so brilliant
that I swore you
were the cause for my blindness.

My mouth sparked with every breath.
I could only speak in verse for the months
that we traced each other's flesh suits,
mapping out possible futures
and fantasies
that came to suffocate
in the smoke rising between us.

An unlined chimney is the difference
between a cosy living room
and a devastating heap of rubble.
When I promised to burn for you,
I did not expect it to be an everlasting smolder,
a pile of lumber,
or a wisp of ash floating across the sky.

I made a promise to the cold brick walls,
with the hope of wrapping myself around you,
enfolding you safely from your own consuming flame.

But you never hear the ticking

inside the chamber-head of a murderer,

claiming it was all in the heat of the moment

as the world world caved in.

We had no way of knowing that cotton sheets

and terrycloth could catch so quickly,

and we were fools for even thinking they wouldn't.

The fireman's wife will tell you,

that no room is safe.

There is always a fiesty stove,

a zealous fireplace,

or an over-working furnace.

Don't get heated floors, your convenience could end you.

Originally performed 12/23/10
Originally written on 12/23/10