Some Men are Witches

Some men are witches,
infected with wilderness
stubble and smoke,

Love that recoils when touched
too deep, as if reborn from the
darkness of stardust traversing under
the church of provocative nomad feet,
they run – some men – have spirits
in their palms that lay fallen from
their chest, thirteen past lives and
fire blooming from their hair in a
summer sleep     he sleeps for days

Swollen with symbolism on the whole
of a tongue – enabling entropy to grow
in acacia’s gravity between the aperture
of your spine – the curse of a kiss, crawling
on elbows and bony knees towards warm
bodies and bad habits, some men like
him take you there, to where they’ve left
their pagan heart within a cluster of trees
flaring from the skin, full moons baked in wheat,

He kneels, seven high – a book ripped in half
from the seam, waiting for a virgin to manifest
herself from an impossible cosmic dream
with a prodigy of purpose made just for his soul
the repossession of youth
alive, but cold, in a bed of apothecary that can
only be felt when you shrink between his ribs –
some men spill their words brewed with blood
and spell out a charm for your name, some men,
some men     are witches.


Photography by Annie Schneid Photography

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Jackie Lowe says:

    Damn it, I could barely read it it was so intense! Perfect rhythm, extraordinary imagery!

    Like

  2. Elbin Rosso says:

    Usually we only see women portrayed as witches, so I love the juxtaposition of men as witches also being capable of fiery, mystical things. A beautiful poem.

    Like

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