The Witch’s Mirror

Bless! she says as they walk in the door,
and acquaint themselves with bookshelves
and bottles of alcohol. She promises she is
not a monster, and that she used to tuck
them in—when there were things that made
them afraid she would call them out into
candlelight, and she would…she would…
Look! she says. Your hands would fit one
of mine, our fingers would be pressed, like
this. What strange reflection! What snowy
night! Are we in the glass, there, and looking
in? Yes that’s right! Our minds work the
same, our minds find similar truths, at different
paces. Look closer, black mirror, dead and
duplicate world, fitting places for the imposter
of the Christ! What saintly things would’ve come
to me, if I had not been so hopelessly addicted to
what was wicked, our cat—yours and mine,
lives here still, and treads the dust reserved
for phantom visitors—curse! Fuck! Belial!
Abyss! You goddamned tabby! They, sheltered
or in the shadow of so many vile and evanescent
memories stare into the fire, the cat has fled and
makes hissing noises from afar. Tell me what
the world is like, she says, her tattered skirts
gathering dust as she advances, as she, lovely and
sad in her senescence, rubs her hands and chatters.
The cold outside is all she knows, what presses
against the glass and whispers—they listen to it now,
offer no rebuke, submit in some strange nocturnal
folly to what is offered—what woeful sounds,
what snowy night, what dark and terrible reflection.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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