The witch is back on her broom again. She’s got her cauldron bubbling over, splattering onto the hearth & homestead of your imaginations.
Nimble fingers wrap twine around birds’ feathers, pulling them into her hair. She mutters her words of safety for the flight – her eyes pinched shut.
I’m hot-gluing golden sequins onto her skirt – all so she’ll float with magic flecks in your eyes. She might save a man from himself or be used up by him… I know it from somewhere that sinks inside my chest. It pulls my whole body if I let it.
So I don’t.
There’s no time for that. I have work to complete. Instead, I remember the win – that there is a win. It turns my stomach. For years, I could control that part of me, too; but now, I race outside into the fresh air to wretch.
It’s my thoughts that keep running away with me. They’ve taken my innards with them.
She doesn’t realize how little it takes. She’s a still child in that way. As was I, I think with a moment’s reflection, and for far too long. The skin around my eyes and mouth sag and droop with it, turning me into a pouty child. Or rather, the older woman I am.
Back inside, I hear a ripping sound. She tears her skirt higher, rationalizing it’s for optimal broom-riding performance. We both know it’s a line. The part of her that needs to fly also needs them to drop their jaws to catapult higher.
Our kitten flaunts her recent kill on the floor between us, and her brother attacks from his spot, somewhere hidden in shadows. She wants to play, too. But not with him. Not right now anyway. She clocked him earlier, laying in wait for her. His eyes reflecting like strobe lights… She was laissez-faire about the whole setup, playing into it… allowing herself to be victimized by him. Then, she shot off like a bullet.
A few of the other riders wisp past my girl. They’re already ready for the night.
They’ll find satisfaction in the chase, too, but they know only one kind. Nature takes control of the others right now. It steers them without their knowledge. She spotted that a long time ago, wiser to the world, if anything, in that. So she gives them what they need – her eyes, finding them.
They look her over and smirk, like they’re hiding a secret about her. They’ll ride the tail of her broom all night, dragging her down, just hoping for the chance to climb higher off her rise.
They know how high she could go, but they’ll let her do the work for them. Burn her out. The ringleader leans to the side, hand up to her mouth to amplify the sound of her cat-calls. All that resentment fueling her, she’s spewing a pious call-to-action against girls like mine.
For every witch, it’s different how many jaws she needs to drop. Male or female. But drop them, she will.
The pecking order of life will sweep them around the skies. My eyes drop to my hands, and I see how I’ve made her easier for them to shoot down. The sequins glinting between my fingers…
She’s too pretty, I curse. They’ve always hated her for it.
It was a curse I didn’t know I’d spoken into being with all my worry and fuss. Yet it was those eyes that told me so … from the first time I saw them – the storms they’d reflect someday.
So, I cross, cross, cross and speak worth & wisdom into the airs to settle my own dust.
The overcast comes, turning day into gray. I welcome it. Wetness clings to my cold fingers, and I begin to shake. It’s taking, I whisper to myself as the cock begins to crow before noon.