The Witch’s Spell

By Grace Atkin

There’s a witch in the house, 

I see her pot brewing, her candles burning. 

Eyes full of mystery, an ominous void

Drawing me closer to a pleasant doom. 

Take your wand, 

Turn me to stone. 

Change me into a black cat–a pet of yours, 

Or a tree watching over your yard.

I beg you, allow me to regrow your wilted flowers, 

The darkest roses for your bed. 

Satan's femme fatale, you inspire me. 

Change me into what you can use.

I’m just an afterthought amongst the curve of your hands, 

Waiting for you to dismiss me 

Or kiss me, 

Or wave your wand to end my existence,

Or maybe to bring me closer to you.

Just let me come inside, let me take my coat off from the rain.

Let me drink your poisoned tea,

Let me bathe in your moonlight, 

Let me prove my worth to you.

Until the witch’s will fades upon me, 

I shall wait here, staring out my window, 

Following the smoke from your chimney

And watching the crows fill your fencepost.

May you find my corpse at your disposal,

May you find the will to revive me. 

Anything for your attention, 

Anything for your spell.