Catechism for a witch’s child
–J.L. Stanley
When they ask to see
your gods
your book of prayers
show them lines
drawn delicately with
veins
on the underside of a bird’s wing
tell them you believe
in giant
sycamores mottled
and stark against a winter sky
and in nights so
frozen
stars crack open spilling streams of molten ice to earth
and tell
them how you drank
the holy wine of honeysuckle
on a warm spring
day
and of the softness
of your mother
who never taught you
death
was life’s reward
but who believed in the earth
and the sun
and a
million, million light-years
of being.
