Good Witches do not

wear dresses of peonies

they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they are not

caricatures of happiness


Good Witches wear

sunsets like cloaks

they run with

bare feet

exposed limbs

and snake hair

through forests and foggy minds


They jump over stone walls

laughing as the

sticks crack

beneath them

they drum their midnight black claws

against tables

as if they were raised by wolves

and divine your future

in sidewalk cracks

modern-day Cassandras,

better listen

listen


they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they smirk, bear fangs

forked tongues spilling magik like moonlight

and make you figure it out yourself