For the witches that survived November
Your luck wanes if you stay in one place.
December is a hellhound,
and it is studying over the emptiness of November,
uncovering tracks that were hidden under the congealed leaves that litter the frostbitten earth.
December was a dog that got too deep in the woods,
discovered by Winter, who plagued the poor animal with her desires,
ordered to root all living things out,
torturing Spring by the bird, bee, flower, that is swallowed down into the pit,
their hearts squelched by the dog pushing its tongue against the plate of its jaw, relishing in the heat a melancholy runs down its throat.
Do not get lost in the deep gazes of the women who took you in,
or you will have them see your undoing.
I see doors splintered,
men clambering into the house.
Your body bound by ropes that scratch you fresh-washed skin,
your muscles straining as they pull you away, aching to shift to a hawk that shreds with its talons, or a fox, how your teeth ache to bite, even a mouse to evaporate from the rope,
but you are confined to the rules of man and stay intact as a witch,
dragged away from the women, your makeshift coven,
drowning in those deep eyes that weep as you are wrenched into the cold,
to a light burning on the hill.
December will rub its great head on their fingers,
marking them with Winter’s brand.
No matter how many times they wash their hands,
there their marks will be, engrained in the lifelines on their palms.
Spare them.
If you are to die, if you are to be caught, spare them from seeing it.
Let them lay in their beds, drifting to sleep on hopes for you.
Hug them goodbye.
Come apart one more time in their arms.
Wipe their tears and put them in a bottle,
give them their compassion,
magic isn’t just potions, it’s what humans decide to do.
Fly like prey do in the night,
December has felt your heart pulse into the cold earth.
Do not give him mercy, do not give up.
Even when you are tired, even when the soles of your feet bruise from roots,
or your ribs feel like they are coming undone from your lungs
or you feel like you are numb instead of woman from the snow burning your skin
Run
Rabbit
run.
You have come so far since October,
Run,
Damn it,
Rabbit
run.
Through the forests of shadow,
weaving through branches and night; Winter’s catacomb.
Run for your life, toward the light glittering in the distance.
Yes! There, run to them child,
they are people who know of December too.
They have made a mockery of Winter and her children,
with their stubborn lights strung on their homes,
their singing bright with merriment,
throwing “bones” of dehydrated pine out for December.
They are good people who are practicing good will towards men,
even to you.
Protect them as you have been protected.
regardless of your own fears,
this is your magic.
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Click here to read the first of this series, “To the witches that survived October.”
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Cover art is from Pinterest.