Previously Published in Concho River Review . . .

 

With Witchcraft

breath (shortened and struggling against this

second-hand corset), I begin the spell

I could not translate.  My mouth

barely manages the proper Latin pronunciations

I found folded and faded, stuffed into the back of A History

of Magic, bought at a yard sale.  Days later

candles struck, flaming at points of a crudely drawn

pentagram, I wait for the enchantment, whatever

it is to move me, change me, kill me.  Or maybe just

prove me wrong.

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