Witch's Demon

Witch's Demon
It comes on a Friday,

All of her time slipping

Between her pruned fingers

Like her bathwater.

She knows it was always

Going to call, but today,

It does,

Crashes down on her

With the weight of the world.

 

It flickers before her,

But she looks away,

Pulling a towel around her,

Pads into her kitchen.

Her fridge is crowded

With her craft, but she finds

Cantaloupe and salami

Among the goat heads

And bear livers

And makes a sandwich.

Her hair hangs in sopping tendrils,

Trailing in her meal,

Dripping coconut-soap water

On the linoleum floor.

 

She plops on the floor,

Traces spirals and swirling runes

In the droplets,

Burning messages and prayers

Steaming blue-gold

In the plastic.

Spells crawl up the cabinets,

Swarm the walls, soak in

And settle for the next witch in this apartment.

 

Its gaze jagged on her spine,

She slips into standing,

Drops her towel,

Turns.

It’s on the ceiling, blackened,

Grotesque, warped, slimy,

Scales flashing

Like the crow wings

Tattooed across the witch’s shoulders.

Nice to meet you, little sister.

The witch inclines her head

To the demon

With the ghost of a smile,

Spreads her arms,

Invites it into her heart.