I am a witch.
All clever and gifted women are.
Women who can hear their mother, Earth, calling out
which spell to cast,
which herb to pluck,
which path to take to avoid
stones and thorns and malice.
I did not want to be a witch.
I was told
and I believed
that men made the world, alone.
I was humbled and disgraced
and bowed my head
and obeyed.
Or tried.
Still
I could read
and books opened before me.
I could speak
and strong words came from me.
I could listen
and a sweet voice called to me,
over and over again,
and sang to me,
sweet music that felt like tears.
I am a witch.
I always have been.
I tried to pray at your altar of stones
but there was nothing for me there –
no song, no smile, no joy, no love,
no respect.
And yet
I know that I am strong,
deserving of respect
for myself and for my part
in creation.
I can summon a spirit,
cast a charm,
offer a blessing.
I can hear the great spirit singing,
and she’s calling
my name.
Experimental City 