The witch still shuttles though dreamscapes doesn’t matter how many times I recite the news she is not there. Fire, the mocker of magic flares in the blank, graphite smoke trespasses again and again on memory’s chimney. But here she come again hurtling through the void where the thought of her would have been if she had not taken the space for herself, as black as a cave and more empty. Her eyes are worked until they shine. Her fingers telescope beyond their ends. Poisonous as waspstingsnakebitedeathcap – just the way I made her.
poemation 