by Eve Robillard

WITCH POEM

I love the language of witches--all bogus Latin
and hocus-pocus. I love their magic hands
and their nails, I love their thrift-shop clothing

and their weird, improbable voices. I'd like to see
more of them working in bookstores, in schools, telling
stories to children, or cruising the high-school halls.

Their pointy noses sniffing out weed; free condoms tucked
into their nun-like sleeves. Sometimes I wish I could find
some really small witches--ones who'd live on my fingers

like rings, or hide in my hair, or wrap themselves
like garlic around my neck. Or sit on my tongue
like a lozenge, dissolving their wickedness, their wisdom,
into my discreet unremarkable body.
-from everything happens twice, Fireweed Press, 2002