Found in Willow Springs 77
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WITCH DOCTRINE
The old ones say to draw
your broom across
the step, then pull the latch.
On the snow's arrival,
witch doctrine says, you bring
the dogs in. No howlers
left alone. The gray muzzled
and the slow-cancered, their
heavy bellies wander home, and
the skinny ones, too, those
you feed dark blood of chickens-
a canine wine. But remember,
daughter: there are nights you'll have
to walk out alone. Know
there's nothing so bad about
a cold wind reaching
through your shirt to your
chest, the strong
contraction of your stomach-
it says, keep walking. A long
winter is ahead, and you'll study it
like a lover. You'll learn
its white sides and its gray
sides, you'll learn branches' pop
and crack, their glassy reflections.
And when one whips
your cheek like a hot blade, you'll
thank it. You'll take
another branch for the fire,
and you will make it.
DEAR GHOST
I am not good at telling
if you are real. Do me
the favor of existing,
please. Press your face
into the burn of the toast,
or clearly film the bathroom
mirror. I would love
to call you ghost, or house
mate, or even house-
is that you in the pipes,
whistle-buddy? I don't
know. I drink my coffee
black as hair. When I
come inside, I cradle
the newspaper like a child,
a gray baby full of new
bad words. Did I say it
out loud, this bit about
the eye cancer that buries
itself deep inside the rods
and cones? A color-
cancer. I think you like
things faded. I think you
love an oatmeal, a wet
sock, the salt line on
a boot. Where the world
licks us, passing by.
