Yes, These Woods Are Full of Witches

meg willing


And dead fluorescent bulbs. We hang wire-tied
to what we think is sturdy. Tiptoe the rim
of the bucketless well. Tonight, I’m slouched
in the sop moss, your car turning
in the driveway. An earthworm wonders if I’m
earth. I’m not. Your face is a cool pan of water
that sloshes in the front door. Slam. A wet slick
in the kitchen the dog laps up. The night pulls in
behind you. The red planet star
blinking above my head. Everything
off/on/off around me. Both of us
ripe for abduction.