Are you a good witch

or a bad witch?
   As if there’s an answer
   earned, inscribed
   in bubbles
   reflecting an inverse
   crown.

Whip-stitched into the lining
of that question I see good
and bad like rhinestones
dressing up inevitability.

Are you a   witch
or a   witch?

You are a witch.
   I am a witch.
You are my witch and I
   am yours.

We wave wands or
broomsticks, conjuring
stars or demons or cramps
waiting for diamonds to stop
houses from falling
on our heads.

No water for us, cup covered
on the bar
   iced coffee only,
   to be safe to be dry to be
un-toxicated
un-blamable
inflammable.

Perched on the lip of a bubbling cauldron
I’ve spent decades learning
how best to melt.

How to slide out of sight
into the creases between the red light
and the green--

Sopping streets,
salt spraying
witches on car tires
witches on sidewalks
witches in oil puddles
witches staining heels
hems faces cuffs—

following instead of being
followed, trailing in defiance
of being trailed.

Witches melt from clubs to
hearts to doorsteps, spreading dark
spots to remind the world

that magic really does
exist.