When I Was a Witch

When I Was a Witch

When I was young, freckled and braided

I was a witch. I had a black cat, a tiger cat, and

A fluffy three-colored cat; all familiars.

I was a witch; there was a witch’s house in the backyard,

And I picked secret herbs from amongst the grass blades,

Mashed them together, grinding them between two rocks,

Scraped them into one of my grandmother’s canning jars,

Filled the jar with water from the holy spot on the lake shore,

And left it in the sun.

It turned thick and black, and tasted terrible.

But I was a witch, and I’d made a potion.

I was a witch, and didn’t know it.

Then I became old, with one braid, fewer freckles,

And I may be a witch. I have a black cat, and a

Slinky wild cat with a mane and black and white whiskers;

Both familiars. I live in a house with gremlins and phantoms

That float in the air all year long, near a hornet’s nest, near

A mummified snapping turtle. I fill jars with herbs, the

same I plucked as a child, but had no names for: heal-all,

plantain, dandelion, cat-tail pollen, motherwort…

I put them in a pot, and fill it with water

And boil and boil.

It turns thick and black, and tastes terrible.

But I’m a healer, and I give it to others

And tell them to drink deep.

Maybe

I’m still a witch, and don’t know it.