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.

The Smell of Sex Was Still on Our Bodies

when the woman leaned over my pew
and whisper-asked
if we wanted to take the gifts
to the altar,
unconventionality sparked
us to our feet
& we walked the
wine, bread, and oil up
to the priest—out of step, just
barely too quick, too eager
to be god’s favorites. we were
little sinners too thirsty
for divination
& in those breaths, we
were the least of these,
transgressors,
filthy with each other on breath
and hand, the most unworthy,
yet
distinctly loved.
if not quite by each other,
by someone.
& we walked back at a not-quite-
matching pace, collapsing, pew
solid enough to feel
the other’s
quiver and it was so divine. so prayed for.
his body brushed my sleeve
and i felt us,
god-touched, i felt
the part of him that
knows me knows god,
& on my knees in a church
that barely knew my dirty face
from eve’s,
at the feet of a god who
only knows my voice
as a begging
whisper,
i knew i was loved.
no one said it.
no one had
to & now,
no one could convince me
otherwise.

My window-bench is my altar, and there are many candles. Tea lights, incense ash, and blackened matches are scattered among the books. Beads in hand, kneeling, I play back my interactions from the day, reflecting on how I could have been gentler or caused less harm. There is forgiving. Breathing myself to sleep from a hero's pose of humility, I blow out the candles and crawl into bed.

Vivian Trutzl is a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School studying religion, ethics, and politics. Her work has appeared in Passages North, PCC Inscape Magazine, and Silver Needle Press.

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