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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
18 Sep 2023

Ama’s arm rested protectively around the girl’s shoulder as the giant bird glided above, its head angling right to left. Violet-black wings soared across a cloudless sky, blocking the sun’s midday rays and swathing sections of the village in deep shadow. Given its size, this argentavis was one of her first, but too far above for her to differentiate by name. Even across the distance, Ama could feel its heartbeat synced to hers, their lives intertwined until death.
She is leaving the world that is pink with desire, on her gray cardboard rocket ship.
Friday: Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung 
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