This poem has a quality of lightheartedness about so many difficulties, a sweet reminder to keep an open heart/mind.
Vivian Trutzl
Witchy
I have never called myself a witch, but
my friend Kate sometimes says it. & it may be true that
I always know what the moon is up to & I am profoundly
unafraid. All cats seem to know me & I have the crystals.
I am both the confessional and priest
for men who miss their mothers but don’t
have a place to pray; I am constantly
playing father to those entering matrimony
to Death. Your beloved’s
face is as kind as you imagine it to be.
I’ll pass your hand & cheek softly, gently,
because there is always time to savor change, if
one wants to. From the moment we were called
alive, this was always
our thinly veiled arrangement & no one
is left out of the procession. I have
the Tarot, the dried bouquets.
A dull needle only pokes through when
its God grows weary enough for one final push but
my God is gentler than a petal: something
inside of me is always on the cusp of puncture.
In a different body, perhaps, my Adam’s
apple would be skewered. In this
body, I am always almost about
to give. The thing about magic
is that the second you name it, it’s gone.
I will not condemn myself, but I will
help you cut the wood. One must honor
their own unbecoming before anyone else &
I’m not sorry, just bruised
from all the heads on my chest that don’t care to
know my mother’s name or how my father loved me.
She taught me every prayer I’ve ever
whispered into your hair,
you know. It hasn’t
been an easy life, & Grandma promised it
will stay hard, but if your hand fits with mine
in a way I like
I’ll let you leave it there,
for a spell. Resolved: Is to be woman, femme, expansion
embodied, birth & death & rebirth, to be witch? It’s not something you
think, it’s something you know. Maybe you always have.
Maybe it scares you.
Two Moons by Christine DeCamp
Full contribution of Vivian Trutzl in Leaping Clear Spring 2020