For the witches that survived October

Suck in your ribs, and tuck your hips behind the oak trees.

November is coming and she is with the men that stalk the woods with their torches held high, sculpting out their sallowed faces. Poor heroes, they have gone feral to burn maidens, starving from the purge of October, their wide pupils shining with the lashing pageantry of the pyre.

Follow the crows, and come with me, this is no place for a wild thing to be.

Rouge your cheeks and tie your hair, we will evaporate like the leaves twisting through the air.

The toads are pushing their bodies into the mud, hoping to bloom like tulips after this heat frosts over, as long as they close their eyes and dream of us, no one shall croak.

Come, come, tear your dress, we want to look our best amongst the modern folk.

The fox shocks the air with her cry, and the raven sees every shadow under his unwavering eye, you are protected, or at least, we swear not to lose you or else be shrouded by your silence forevermore.

November the Valkyrie, is burning, but she shall swallow smoke and weeds, the politics that breeds the men like the hair on their chest, turning to the silver of knives as they grow more …wise.

Come, a village.

You shall be taken in by hands of women who will polish you pretty and teach you their ways, like threadwork and foraging.

You have nothing to fear here in this sorority, for you see my dear, they all know me, and as you stay with them, you will come to notice commonalities, like cat whiskers in glasses or flowers ground down for poultice.

They will wink at you as they hum over their loom and they will confess that they know the Moon’s moods too, and even though they may not need knives to protect them, no harm will come to you, as I have not had it happen to them,

my collection of witches bleached

to hide in the white of men’s eyes

until there are as many women standing as there are in the air and earth.

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Cover art is not made by me, found on Pinterest.