Olude Peter Sunday, Earthly race
What We Wayward Do
All spells begin with water.
Rod in hand, flick of it against the stinging sky,
Mama nem stir the air to tears.
Casting is what they call the girls putting in work
‘round here & yes, we witches are fishermen,
whip glamours in men’s overalls
so long as fish rise to the surface
mere hours before morning’s stilettos.
Believe me-at the edge, we make them levitate,
each saddling our silence as if any noise unweighted
would loose a daemon slick-scaled & wide-eyed
with no bellies by which to bind it.
Where I’m from, folk learn conjure early,
the kind of favor you pray over a pole for
& what is Greek is still a gospel:
Here, Jesus is a sigil with light bread
& there is always a Pilate & a piercing before cooking,
a struggle so steady, we laugh at our buckets,
that is, yes, we flay the fish with care.
Cricket-fed & fried light, worked to the bone,
this how we kill our familiars:
There is nothing, then something.
Something, then nothing. It is wristwork.
It is sobering. It is holy. We gather.
We murmur. We swallow in worship.