The Witch

Last night I had a vision
which caused me to awaken
from a long sleep
Where I was under a spell,
my mind in a fog.
Until then, I hardly remember how I got here,
in this little apartment with a job
and my yoga studio next door,
or where these poodles came from,
who sit warmly upon my lap,
or why I am writing a recipe for a lemon tart,
I don’t remember what happened –
It’s as if it wasn’t me.
But where had I been?
Then I recall my vision.
I’d been held captive on a train car,
wearing a beard,
in a man’s body,
with a witch who
threatened to free me.
I had surrounded myself with
severed heads of dead friends
who were my talismans,
meant to protect me from
the witch and her intentions.
She was after all, so hideous.
I mocked her, but she only sneered.
Then, quick as light, she stabbed me
with a long knife,
just to show that the skulls
didn’t work.
They weren’t alive,
but I was.
So I awoke.

Night Vision

The pill that tastes like mint
melts under my tongue,
and I am fearful
of what’s to come.

I close my eyes
and my lids flutter
as I dream
of impossible things
that are too real
to be fiction.

I hear the rumble
of granite boulders
rolling as lemmings
through a field of
yellow flowers,
wearing ugly smirks
that bring me
to my knees
as I watch a little girl
who is about to
be crushed.

I die on a rooftop
in a leather jacket
and black boots.
I wake on the same roof
in the snow
many years in the future.
Beyond the evergreen forest
and sloping hills,
is a frozen tsunami wave
cresting so high
it nearly touches the sun.

And then I awaken,
my eyes bleary
and head filled with dreams
of what dark worlds
may come.

Crow in Letters

“There’s a crow up there you see?” says the ferry man.

He points to the Erie Lackawanna sign in large, red and white letters above the dock. I jab my bike between the metal railing at the stern and give the handlebars a good shake to make sure they’re secure.

“What letter is he hiding in?” I say, squinting and looking up. I cannot find the crow.

“The R.” The ferry man shades his eyes with his hand. The river slops against the wooden pylons.

“Would be funny if he was in the C,” I say.

“Yeah.” The man chuckles.

“Or maybe he thinks he is a raven. That’s why he’s in the R.”

The ferry man’s eyes widen. “Oh, yes. But that could be bad. A very bad omen indeed.”

His mouth turns down in worry, and I mirror his frown. I should think before I speak. Who am I to darken this man’s day?

My knees wobbly, I slink onto the boat and take my seat amongst the passengers.

As the ferry pulls away from the dock, I look back up at the R, but still I do not see the crow.