A Witch’s Lament

The witch imbues her tinctures with memories
Under speckled sky, by the black new moon
Her own, her clients’, enemy’s—bespoke and bygone
The road is long to reach her step
Do not forget this:

She can be found

In her garden of pennyroyal—its leaves picked bare for tea
Sat pretty on a rotted stump, ivy blooming on her gown
She awaits pleas thankless
for hymns, hexes heady and offers
A bargain

You will forget what you gave her
But sense that
Once—you knew

***

B. W. Wiese is a human weed who grew out of the ground in the Midwest. She attempts to use writing to sink roots deep into the ground somewhere. She has M.A. in creative writing from the University of Northern Iowa. Find her @wieseburb on twitter.