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Do not take a stone from my shores;
don’t you think
I can feel my own bones
no matter where they go?

I’ll send my invisible sinews
after you,
threaded on the wind,
rise up out of the stone
you took as a mere souvenir
and teach you
the meaning of regret.

Bring my stones, my bones,
back to me;
leave them in the ritual lines
of the mazes your ancestors wrought,
the tattoo, the silent runes
that bind me here—

it’s your best chance
as you sail back away over the waves
to whatever useless, silent land
you came from—
you’d best know
that I’m alive,
that I’m the witch herself,
not some feeble, fleeting human,
but the land, the earth.

You’re adorable in your confusion,
your fear.
Come back.
I could just eat you up.

Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband and son. Her prize-winning poetry has appeared in over fifty journals. For more about her work, including her poetry collections, The Gates of Never and Bounded by Eternity, please see
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
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