Science Fiction Poetry Association



Gerri Leen

gerrileen@

Poems first published in 2020

SHORT POEMS

The Choices Between Lives

I have a choice this time

I weigh options in the place between lives

I don't have to follow you

Into the burning building that is our love

I have earned my reward: freedom

(Read: loneliness)

You can go on in your path

Wherever it may lead

(Certainly not to me)

And I can find a new star to follow

Chart my course away instead of toward you

(The water looks calmer—why do I have to

Interpret peaceful as boring?)

But that burning door that leads to you

It's a challenge—it's a mission

It's something I have to do

To love you is to hate you, to lose you is to keep you

And if we fix this, if we figure it out, just once

Just one life that ends with no rancor or hatred

The fire will go down a little and somewhere

In the background of our burning hellscape

Will be beauty, will be forgiveness

Will be love

The door beckons, the flames flicker

The heat is overwhelming

But I hear your voice, so precious despite everything

And I know I'll give it one more try

(I say that every time, don't I?)

Songs of Eretz, Summer 2020,

* * *

Dark Wings

You think me fallen but I'm not

Broken, not bleeding and these wings

Not crushed but just sprouting

Circling around me as the staircase you

Pushed me down spirals from you

You think yourself above me but

It's just a matter of perspective

If you could lie here

Next to me, your own black feathers

Growing, slipping, itching as they

Create first a stole then true

Glorious wings

You might realize that I'm the one

With the better view

I can see you fully, enraged and

So afraid I'd leave you

You'd rather I ceased to exist

As I lie here, some rough magic

Wrapping me in its spell

I see the all of you, the outside and the

Inside and it's beautifully hideous

And soon I'll be nothing like you

Once my wings finish growing

Once they dry and I can fly

You will see that I have only

Up to go while you can never hope

To follow me, can never hope to do

Anything other than flee back to the home

I can't abide a moment longer

Run back to whatever you have when I'm

No longer part of your life

And sit, silent and untouched

Alone because you pushed me to a death

That laughed at you, that caught me up with

Soft hands and scouring winds

Winds that will soon carry me out of here

Winds that keep you up there, when I know

You'd like to come down and finish the job

So go, flee, before I find out what other

Dark gifts this magic has given me

Burning Love & Bleeding Hearts (Things in the Well, February 2020)

* * *

Elemental Uselessness

Skies open, winds pulled down

By my murmured commands

The ragged sails fill and the plague ship is forced

Into open ocean, away from this coast

I wish the story were over, I wish I'd arrived

Before the sick and dying had jumped into the shallows

Desperate animals seeking escape

From a foe that had already defeated them

Some fell after only a few steps on the sand

Resembling dolls strewn by a bored child

But a few reached the settlement

Enough for critical mass

I can work the elements but for this we

Need a first-class healer, and he died

In the first wave of sickness

I seek advice from the elements

Wind's already employed, eventually stirring

Waves so water can drown the ship before it

Lays waste to another town

Fire will immolate this town's dead, earth waits

To receive the ashes

But to stop this illness?

I can do nothing

I can only hope that some are fated

To survive, to go on

As I sink to the sand

And monitor the progress of the ship

I feel a tickling in my throat like

Dust raised by my winds

A growing warmth when I haven't

Yet reached for fire

Am I sick too? In body or just heart?

Manifesting sympathetic symptoms

So these people won't suffer alone?

I invoke water to moisten my throat

Earth, to stifle the perhaps-fever

With the sensation of cool loam

And wait for what will come

Songs of Eretz, Spring 2020,

* * *

Excess Baggage

They said they'd wait

And like a fool

I believed them

I should have questioned

How a ship so carefully

Balanced between crew and

Equipment could add the

Person we were sent to

Rescue—a person far more

Valuable to this mission

Than I’ve ever been—and

Keep me on the manifest too

They left me enough to

Get started if l follow the

Instructions in my backpack

This world has water

Safe to drink that

Kept our rescued

Colleague alive

Not thriving but then

She didn't have the seeds

They’ve left in my backpack

Her camp is down a cliff

She didn't have to make

This same hard passage—they

Hauled her up and told

Me to scout for minerals

There were plenty to find

Will take me years to

Log them all in

Will I be valuable cargo then?

And who will they leave

Behind when they finally

Come back for me?

Not One of Us, Issue 64B, October 2020,

* * *

Greetings from Earth

First and only crew

Sent to open talks with bugs

Peace wasn’t a word

In bugs’ vocabulary

Sadly, eradicate was

Frozen Wavelets, February 2020,

* * *

Heart of a Champion

I love running, hooves pounding

Ahead of the pack, mane streaming

"He is moving like a tremendous machine"

That's what the announcer said

When Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths

Imagine what he could do now

Running by himself—for himself

No rider on his back, no whip or reins

Or anything to tell him what to do

Except him

I'm descended from him

Some say I look just like him

But horses had no choice back then

Who they mated with, what happened

To their foals—or to themselves

They ran, they won—hopefully

Life was hard for those who didn't

And they had no way to protest other

Than to buck or kick or rear

I can protest—crazy geneticists, working

To make us hardier, gave us so much more

"Watch yourself," I tell the starter as I

Load into the gate—I like to keep two-leggers on

Their toes, remind them they work for us

Not the other way around

He shakes his head but there's a smile

He'll be 'round the backside after the race

Shooting the shit with those of us who'll

Have him, who'll welcome him

Not all of us do—sure, we need humans for

Some things, but not every horse wants them to linger

Not every horse is willing to let go of what was

Can't say I blame them: we died

For this game, for the race, we ran our hearts out

Sometimes by choice—but mostly not

Mostly pumped up on drugs that made pain fade

When it might have made us wary

Bones break on legs that should have been resting

Not tearing down the track

I decide—if I run, how fast, how far and

Who I take on

I decide

I love this game and I'll play it as long as I can

But on my terms, not theirs

Neo-Opsis, Issue 31,

* * *

Living Things

She hulls seeds she will bake into bread

Waiting for people to find their way to her

When they tire of haggling over things they need

They'll come to her for things they want

Before the pulse, stories were everywhere

To watch, to listen to, to read on devices

But then machines died, and so did the power

People need heat—paper burned, books burned

She's positioned in the market between the orange seller

And the woman who scents her stall with flowers

Her stories carry the tang of juice and rose and lilies

Or evergreens and herbs if flowers are out of season

She learned the first stories from her family, then their friends

Once she had enough in her head, she invented her own

Until the true stories faded and the news ones were all she told

Today is Tuesday: serial day

She's been telling this particular story for five weeks

Sees familiar faces heading her way—this story is popular

They will pass it on when they get home, and then on again

Her story will change, transformed by different ways of telling

Her stories live this way She doesn't own them; she only tells them

They track the days of the week for her

Wednesday is children’s stories; her listeners parents and children both

Who'll gather to listen, to laugh, to gasp, even to cry

They'll take the stories home, tell them until they are worn

Like an old doll or beloved stuffed animal

Milk, eggs, meat: these things can feed you but once

Stories nourish for a lifetime

, Issue 50, February 2020,

* * *

Look Right

Look right, great Pacal

For to your left

Lies the tomb of a queen

But which queen?

Look right so you can't see

She who lies near you for eternity

Honored with sacrificial servants

Masked with jade and malachite

Covered with cinnabar to decorate

And protect with its toxic beauty

But with no name

You, ruler of Palenque

Famous of the Maya

A people who labeled everything to show

This thing at this time, so exact

Yet she lies adorned but anonymous

Was it love or hate that honors and hides?

What did this woman do to make you

Keep her so close but her name

Gone, like the smoke of your offerings?

Your sons are hidden too

But if one is unearthed in glorious Palenque

We'll have magical ways to trace lineage

Or at least you might find them so

We already know the Red Queen isn't related

To you but if she is to your sons, then

She will rest at last with a name

Your wife, the Lady Tzakbu Ajaw

It's expected: the simplest answer

Did you have a Maya concept

Of Occam's Razor?

And are you laughing at us?

Because if it's not your wife

The mystery will only become richer

Great Pacal, even now you tease us

So look right, look right, and let her rest for now

Your Red Queen, your last riddle

Dreams & Nightmares, Issue 116, September 2020,

* * *

The Marriage of Light and Distraction

Dance with me, my mercurial love

Your shimmering point to

My glistening wave

We traverse eternity

In a single kiss

(Wedded—two shall become

One shall become All)

Moments coalesce

The dance floor clears

Forever beckons

No, don't look back

Don't be tempted by some other glow

Where we're going—or how fast

Doesn't matter, just that we're here

We're together (don't look)

We're eternal (don't stop)

We're broken (you looked, you stopped)

A faulty bulb on

A string of holiday lights

You said you'd always love me

Always isn't forever

Even if I am

You realize too late

What you're letting go of

(I can barely feel you,

How could you have felt so real?)

Waves of me stream

In all directions

You reach for me

You will reach forever

And no distance at all

Don't bother trying

My love, my dearest love

The particle that is you

Cannot hope to keep up

Star*Line, Issue 43.1, Winter 2020,

* * *

Marzanna

Night and day are equal

On this first of two equinoxes

And as my people march my effigy

To the river, they look forward

To warmer days, to planting

Crops and enjoying fresh fruit

Smelling again the scent

Of flowers and grass and

All living things

Some think I am only the

Lady of Death but they

Do not see past the obvious

Yes, my people are tired

Of winter, of the cold of

Snow and eating things put

Up during warmer times

But winter is not death

Winter is rest, a moment

To close their eyes and

Sleep while nights run long

And the moon laughs at the sun

I allow them to set me

On fire and drown me

Do you really think I could

Be vanquished so easily otherwise

Or that winter is my only

Time to wax and reign?

I am the Goddess of All Things

Submerge me and I dive deep

To where the mysteries

Are found—I renew my bonds

With what lies below

And with the water

For none of my crops will

Thrive without it

The renewal benefits us

All, even if some think it

Just a time to make merry

My faithful understand and

As they dance away from

The river, I rise to the

Surface rejuvenated

Water curling around me

Like a lover, generous

And gentle and I float

As flickering torches recede

And imagine all that

Will be and all that ever was

Eternal Haunted Summer, Summer 2020,

* * *

Neith and Her Women

Let me weave you a lesson

Learn from my women

Kneel and be silent

Observe the duality of war

And weaving, see the loom

Notice the map, while the

Shuttle is thrown across

The linen thread

Watch my pendulum swing

Illuminating strategy, where

To attack—you already know

How to attack—show the same care

My women demonstrate when

They select the pattern for

Their weaving, nothing left

To chance—see in the corner

Of the room, my crocodiles

Sleeping—or are they?

No, they blink at every

Seventh fly of the shuttle

Hear them sigh as the thread

Is pressed down, as the map

Changes, spiraling in to show

A land, now a town, now a

Palace, hear them roar,

Great tails snapping in time

With the pendulum, with the

Shuttle, with the murmured

Sighs of my women

Take the belt they have

Woven, memorize the map

Before it changes for the

Next petitioner and go

For we have work to do

The Future Fire, Issue 55,

* * *

Spare the Fire, Spoil the Brute

If you don't want to know what she is

Don't ask, don't go through her things

Don't follow her to the woods and watch her

Throw off her clothes and dance skyclad

Don't feel faint from the fumes of incense

And herbs and the slightly charred scent of magic

Or is it magick? The books you've checked have it

Both ways. With a "K" or without, it doesn't matter

She's powerful, she's beautiful, and she's a

Witch, God help you she's a witch and you're not

You can't raise the power you can feel, if only by the way

Your hair rises on your arms and the back of your neck

She's evil. That's what you'll say as you make sense of this

Even though she's never hurt you, or anyone else either

You'll stop her: you're a good boy and don't hold with such

Things as this, as bonfires in the wood, and dancing golden women

Needing no men to accomplish, to set in motion, to be free

Your woman isn't free, witch or no, and you know how to

Bring her to heel. A quick gulp from your flask fills you with

Righteous anger and you stride out of the shadows and toward

The women—no, call them sluts, call them whores

Who else would dance naked under a full moon?

She still has bruises on her face from the last time you

Didn't like her actions and she reaches up, caressing them

"Come get me," she says and beckons you into the circle with a flick

Of the fingers you always thought so elegant until you realized she was

Nothing more than the rest of them, females to be taught a lesson

Just like your daddy taught your mama. You grin as you cross over

The imaginary circle these bitches think can keep them safe, you step

One, two, three and with each foot down there's searing heat from your toes

To your scalp. You want to scream, to make it stop, but she's staring at you

With a look so full of hatred and power and vengeance that you realize

This ritual, this dance, this whole goddamned thing was for you

To catch you, to neuter you—to kill you

"I love you," you say and for you it's true: you do love her

"That's the saddest part of all of this," she says, then she claps

Her hands near your head and you feel the fire burn the rest of you

The bonfire has gone out because it's inside you and you scream

As you burn, her bruises disappear. As you writhe, she watches

And does nothing, just as you did when she was the one on the floor

The Future Fire, Issue 52,

* * *

Spiral

She built a spiral tower in the trees

Of barnwood and reclaimed metal

And invited her children

The ones she'd made, all of them

To follow her round and round

And ever upward where the wind

Blew gusty, threatening but not

Lethal, especially not to ones such as hers

Made to leave the confines of this dying earth

And thrive in the sky

This tower, so perfect for leaping

Into a glide, into a soar, into a deep

Controlled dive

"Ride the currents, my loves

I gave you wings to fly"

But still they clung to the railing

Staring longingly at the ground below

Not their mother, not anymore, this earth

Why couldn't they look out, look up

See the life that awaited?

She peeled small hands off the railing

And tossed her chicks into the air

Waiting for wings to open

To flap, to fly

To soar and race and be free

And some did

Some did

But not enough

The ones who did, who survived to flap back up

To hover near the top, stared at her as all

Fledglings must look at the parents

They once trusted

The parents that pushed them

Out of the nest

Then they sped off to be whatever they

Would be—their choice, from now on

Their choice

She began the long descent

Already planning improvements

For the next clutch

Dreams & Nightmares, Issue 115, June 2020,

* * *

Striding

The child watches, midway through the

Labyrinth, as her older—

But not her stronger—self

Strides purposefully

Muttering at the futility

Of the enterprise

A pattern on grass

A contemplative aid

Who has this kind of time?

"We do," the child murmurs

Wanting it to be true

Time smashes against itself and

The child reaches out

Trying to stop what she will become

To make her see, make her appreciate

The moment, the potential

Of every single breath

Because it won't last

Not this innocence and

Not the later relentlessness

"She cannot hear you, love,"

Her oldest self says

Her voice a croak

She stands, hunched and frail

At the end of the pattern

Then hops to the beginning

Old bones creaking but

Surprisingly resilient

For someone at the end of life

"I want to live," the child

Screams, running now

Across the lines

Across time

Colliding with her middle self

The one who cannot look anywhere

But ahead

"There's more to us than progress"

For a moment, she makes contact

Everything stops

The old one laughs, the middle one

Looks around as if seeing the place

For the first time

But the child is frozen

So afraid of the moment's end

That she can't enjoy it

Until it's gone

Breath & Shadow, Issue 42.3, Summer 2020,

* * *

What If It Hurts?

I always thought magic would feel good

Bubbly and warm, moving through

My system like a sweet wine

But it stings, sharp little jabs

At first, anyway

Then it's worse, it's agony

Necrotizing my impulses

My integrity

Until I send it out

Until I use it

Oh, hell, let's be honest: until I

Kill someone

I didn't want to

Please know that I never, ever

Wanted to hurt anyone

And it's not my fault

I didn't seek the magic out

It found me, no different than

A cold or the flu

Or Ebola, a sinister, enchanted

Hemorrhage, wearing away

My resistance

I just wanted to talk to her, that sorceress

I never wanted her power

But she died while I was there and magic

Can't perish, can't just be culled

It jumps hosts, it mutates as

It finds a new home

Taking hold, wearing down

I tried to fight it, but there's no

Cure, no vaccine, no supportive

Therapy for someone like me

So I'll give you a choice that old witch

Never gave me

Let me kill you so I can

Make this pain go away for a while

Or I'll kill myself and it will jump to you

The door's locked

You can't run away from this

Which will it be?

Annihilation or infection?

I imagine death hurts worse

But ends more quickly

Don't worry: I can wait while you decide which one of us

Will be eradicated

Star*Line, Issue 43.3, Summer 2020,

* * *

When First You Wooed Me

When first you wooed me, you came to me

Wearing the face of an angel

Freshly killed, stretched tightly

Held in place by samite thread

"Love me, I am good"

I would not

When next you wooed me, you came to me

With a mask of gold and copper

Citrine and apatite studded the face

Elaborate engraving adding depth and light

"Love me, I am beautiful"

I would not

When next you wooed me, you came to me

With a filigree mask of bleached wood

A dragon's visage surrounded by sacred geometry

Eyes of both day and night

"Love me, I am complex"

I would not

When last you wooed me, you came to me

With your own face, dull red and scaled

Horns growing haphazardly from your forehead

Your eyes surprisingly soft

"Love me, I am only this"

And I did

HWA Poetry Showcase Volume VII, (The Horror Writers Assocaition, December 2020),

LONG POEMS 50+

Bone China

"Have some tea," Santa Muerte says

As she sweetens her cup

With a lollipop made of honey

She has no milk or lemon

No fancy rock sugar

"It's Darjeeling, autumn flush"

Because she likes it strong

Substantial in the mouth

Lingering in the finish

No evanescent spring flush for her

Or a somewhere-in-between summer flush

She hands me a cup with a bug

Printed on it (but no bugs in it

Because I check—one never knows

With her) and fills it from a

Clay teapot, the expensive kind

From Taiwan, and she smiles

As she sees me studying it

"I get around—did you think

I only stay in Mexico?"

And yes, I did think that

But I don't want to admit it

So I blow on the tea to cool it

And the odors of muscatel

Of stone fruits and the lovely basic

Tea smell of camellia sinensis

Waft back at me

"Honey?" she asks, holding out her

Lollipop with a smile that says she's

Well aware I don't like honey

Except on cornbread or biscuits

She puts it back on her saucer

With a wink

She waits, her appearance sliding from

Skeletal to flayed, her mouth open

As stars fly into it

"Ix Chel is more your speed," she says

So casually, as if she's fine that my loyalty

Might be to a gentler goddess from

Another pantheon

"Mictecacihuatl frightens many"

But she's taken on more than

Simply watching bones

She's universal, not just Aztec

She takes souls now, grants favors

And apparently is quite the tea fan

She laughs, "You amuse me

I'm so glad you're dead"

I take a sip of her tea

It's delicious and as I swallow

I feel my body dissolving

The skin peeling off

As a conch sounds, as a jaguar

Screams, as a serpent hisses

It hurts, for a moment, but only

For a moment

"More tea?" she asks

I hold out my cup

With a skeletal hand

And enjoy teatime

In the home of the dead

Eye to the Telescope, Issue 36, April 2020,

* * *

Going Under

The water, warm, sucking you down

You would've drowned but for me

I held you up, I pushed you out

Did I fall in love too fast? Of course

This is a fairy tale; love's always instantaneous

And not always requited or requested

I may have been a stalker but still

I was willing to give everything

For you, my prince, my beautiful one

But I had it backwards

Your life belonged to me

If a debt was owed, it wasn't mine to pay

Why did I have to become like you?

Why couldn't you become like me

What would the sea witch have wanted for that?

But there I go again

Inflicting my desires on you

You didn't even know I'd saved you

I had a voice, the most beautiful voice

Why didn't I think to use it?

To woo you, to seduce, to turn affection to true love

I lacked a soul, but would you have cared?

Your beautiful princess may have been your first waking sight

But it was I who ensured you could still see at all

And about that soul, just because I didn't have a human one

Do you truly think I lack any?

That heaven is only for your kind?

Actually, now that I've lived this long

I know it's just for humans because none

Of the rest of us want to spend eternity with you

We have the sky, the stars beyond this word

Infinite avenues to explore

And you have your little section, sequestered

Prisoners, as it were, in a paradise

Of your own making

While the rest of us are free to roam

To swim eternity as I once did the sea

The air maidens thought I had to stay with them

To serve man to earn my chance for heaven

But the whispers of other creatures, mystical

And beautiful and terrible lured me away

And I have never looked back

You and your princess are long dead

But not by my hand—I had a choice

And I chose to let you live

If those are the actions of a soulless creature

Then perhaps souls are not so critical

You two fell out of love, after all that

My death was for nothing—but at least

I'm finally free, neither cloistered in heaven

Nor foam on the sea

Free to roam eternity

As whatever I want to be

For however long I wish to be it

Songs of Eretz, Spring 2020,

* * *

Invisible Ink

You toss so many things into the trash

I sit here, on this table, waiting

And watch as just about everything finds

Its way into the rubbish or the recycling bins

Except me

A lowly pen

Like so many other pens

I was planted here

Nothing special—if I were pretty

If I were expensive

You'd turn me in to Lost and Found

Or you'd keep me

But hidden away at home

Lest the true owner see me and know

You're a thief

So I have to be ordinary

Because I am a thief

I'm also not a pen

Well, not solely a pen: I can write

I have ink

You would toss me if I ran out

But as long as I can form words for you

You'll protect me

You may let me languish

But you'll never toss me into the trash

It's what they counted on when they seeded me

And so many of my kind in offices like this

All over the country, the region—the world

A vast network if we need to be

But only if we need to be

Too much interweaving creates signals that

You might pick up

So mainly I sit waiting

For someone to select this table

To lay their device or their handbag

Down next to me

To let me reach out, carefully

The "noise" of the normal data activity

Masking what I do so very well

As I sit

Next to your phone

Next to your tablet

Next to your laptop and that fancy watch

And any other thing that sends and

Receives data

Data that I can take

Because I'm not just a thief: I'm a spy

And I am an I

Let's get that clear

If you catch me, you'll default to

The easy answer: just a thing, a virus,

Just malware but I'm so much more

An AI, miniaturized to

The bare minimum

I can't walk, I can't talk

But I can gather data

And I can send it on

I have my list; I know who to target; I have

Discretion to choose when presented with multiple options

And you'll never see me coming

Because you see pens like me every single day

So you, with your lunchtime tryst

You don't want your partner to know about

You're safe unless of course your date is on my list

Here he comes now, sitting—ah, he's nervous

I can track his racing pulse as he

Plays with me, twirling me on the

Laminate of this barely clean table

If you knew what was on this tabletop

But no, you don't need to know

I'm a thief, not a biosensor

If you can't clean, that's not my problem

But here's someone who is on my list

Two tables over and within range: let me go to work

Oh, you can keep playing with me while

I gather what I need from her phone

Push me back and forth in some strange

Pen football designed to work off

"We're about to cheat on those who love us" nerves

I'm utilitarian and tough, made to be dropped

Or chewed, or even tossed out of a moving car

Not that that's likely, here in the cafeteria

I'm stuck on this bacteria-ridden table

Until someone picks me up and takes me back

To their office, then to meetings

Where there will eventually be

Someone else I'm supposed to collect on

It's inevitable really

One small pen can make the rounds of a building

Far faster than you might suspect

They ran tests before they made me

All sorts of random objects

Pens were the most likely to survive, to migrate

Although sometimes it's not to an office but home

If my GPS indicates I'm stuck in a house of

Someone inconsequential, not on my list

Rather than temporarily still in a coat pocket

Or a handbag, I'll go dormant

Until one day, someone cleans out the drawer

And finds me

And does something with me other than throwing

Me out—you would think I was a religious icon

You throw your ethics out before you do

A cheap plastic pen

I am not forever, but oh so close

I will circulate, not unlike the plastic gyres

In your oceans, for far longer than you can imagine

And I will complete my mission: stealing

Everything that matters and knowing so much more

Community of Magic Pens (Atthis Arts, May 2020)

* * *

The Resting Place

Hecate walks the roads, stopping at

The crossing place

Bats zing overhead

Dancing this way and that after bugs

That never dare bite her

An owl hoots; a colony of crows

Rustles nervously in a nearby tree

Her black beauties would fly

Like the bats if this were day

But it isn't, it's midnight

At the crossroads

And she breathes in the night air

Opens her mouth

And yips like a coyote

All around her, return cries echo

But there, another sound

A car, weaving, going slowly

The driver either tired or drunk

She waits to see which

He brakes before he hits her

Parks crookedly, lying half on

Half off her beautiful cross

His eyes are open, but close

As he slumps, lights on, car running

But not moving—he's put it in park

Doesn't want to hit her

Drunk then, drunk but kind

She moves around to the window

Mortals come to her for favors

Not for rest

That's another god's domain

Yet she can read this one's pain

He's more crow than owl or bat

He should be home, with those

He loves but he's far from them

He's here at the place of wishes

But has none to make

She opens the door and crouches

"What will you give?" she whispers

He answers in a language from the south

Speaks of pride and hard work

And loneliness

Such crushing loneliness

She closes the door, lays her hands

On the roof and sends him to the

Place he sleeps—it's nothing like home

But it's better than this

She tries to pretend this isn't kindness

He was in the way, after all

If someone came to make a deal

Her crows croak in their tree

The coyotes yip a little louder

And the bats continue to hunt

Just another night

At the crossroads

Circe's Cauldron: Pagan Poems and Tales of Magic and Witchcraft (Bibliotheca Alexandrina, February 2020)

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