- & no, it won’t be like whiskey.
make no apologies; accept no apologies.
- coven rule #3.
IV. the ashes
there’s the whole story as it was told to me. the witches took the flames meant to eradicate them & turned them back on their killers instead. can you believe they ever thought they would get away with it? i know, i know. now i pass a handful of the sparks to you, daring one. show them the same mercy they showed our ancestors all those years ago. (none, none, none.) let us write their story in the ashes of their enemies, & then we can finally finish what they started.
if nothing else, we will make certain they’ll never be granted the opportunity to silence us again.
don’t be scared. even if you don’t believe in yourself, i believe. i’ve always believed in you.
you know just what to do.
- the last lesson in fire.
they
said
poetry
was dead,
so
the tired
but
ever-determined
women
took that
as a
challenge
&
came together
to cast
their
resurrection
spell.
- necromancers.
i’m a poet
& i do
fucking
know it.
sit up
&
pay
attention
as
i take
your
name
& drag it
through
the very
flames
you
built with
my ruination
in mind.
- i won’t repeat myself.
i have to warn you, my love. the men will try to convince you that we stole the poetry from them. they will light those stubby matches & try to throw them at us once more, but they will miss & they will not be happy. oh no, not. one. bit. “give it back!” they’ll shout at us until their throats start to bleed. they mean give it back to the dead men who thought they were taking the poetry with them to the grave, the same dead men who were so naïve as to think that the words wouldn’t slip from their grip after their skin decomposed & their marrow began to show. the irony? it was our men who demanded we go outside to tend to their sunflowers, never once dreaming of the possibility that we would wander away into their cemeteries.
- finders keepers.
unzip
the skin
around all
my edges
&
you will find
the grave-robbed
bones
of all
the women poets
wronged by
men
they
would
never dare
satisfy by dying.
they
continue to write
through my
hand
& a woman’s
wrath
is nothing
if not immortal.
- writing with no light.
i know
about
that voice
inside
you.
yes,
i know
all about
the
woman
who’s
been
screaming
her whole
life
for
the chance
to be
heard
by someone.
take
this pen
from me
& uncage
her.
- you owe this to yourself.
you
think
your body
is made up
of mostly
water,
but
really
your body
is made up
of mostly
poetry.
wherever you go,
you leave behind
puddles of
words
in your
wake.
collect the
integral pieces
of yourself
&
call the
words back.
you deserve
to be whole again.
- the sign you’ve been waiting for II.
we need
your words.
we need
your experiences,
we need
your traumas,
we need
your anger,
we need
your guilt,
we need
your passions,
we need
the story
you think no one
cares to hear.
we need that
woman-rage-fire
only you
can provide, so
write.
write.
write.
- the sign you’ve been waiting for III.
write the poem.
(write the pain)
burn the poem.
(burn the pain)
- blow the ashes in their eyes.
poetry
will be
the thing
that
leads us
into this
revolution
&
poetry
will be
the thing
that
leads us
carefully
back out.
- resistance is fine art.
silence j ilence j iolence j
violence
protest j potest j poetst j
poett j poetr j
poetry
two hands
cupped around
the earth,
cracked open
the middle,
& poured its
contents
into a
black hole.
no light—
only the
soundless,
suffocating
dark
with no
escape.
that
is the
only way
i know how to
describe
t h e a g o n y.
- 1/20/17
when you
take it upon
yourself
to politicize
human bodies
&
the
right to
keep breathing
without paying
a steep price
for it,
don’t
pretend
to be shocked
when we start
to take politics
personally.
- as you tell us, “deal with it.”
january 21st, 2017.
remember the date.
it was the day when more
than 3.3 million women
took the flames
that have licked at
&
nbsp; their hard&soft skin
for centuries
& threw barrels of it
at the old house
constructed with packs of
white matchsticks.
- the women’s marches.
in response,
the match-boys
locked all the windows
& all the doors
to silence us, which only meant
we had to scream louder.
oh, how the sky fell&fell
for days afterward—
some believe they were
the tears of the ancestors
who had to watch but couldn’t
stop this from happening.
- the women’s marches II.
&
when it
was all over,
we gathered
together
& raised
our faces—
eyes closed—
towards
the sky.
a cry/a plead/
a thanks
to the woman
who fought to
keep our fire
alive
but got
pushed into
the pit
instead.
thank you
for believing
we could be
more than
fading embers.
- for hillary.
fight tirelessly
for your sisters
& don’t forget
to lend a hand to
those pushed so far
into the margin
of the paper
they’re d
a
n
g
l
i
n
g
off the
edge.
- there’s plenty of room for all of us.
fire
was
made
to
bring
down
walls.
- he will try to divide us.
walls
should
only
be built
to keep out
flammable
tyrants.
- & we will ensure that he fails.
a
heavy crown
spray-painted gold
will still crack
when it takes
the long
tumble
d
o
w
n,
d
o
w
n,
d
o
w
n.
- the crooked king.
there will be nothing
for them to rule
if we
- demolition.
turn this kingdom
upside
down.
fuck
the idea of
staying calm.
there’s no
such thing as a
kind uprising.
there are
no “please”s,
no “thank you”s,
&
no justice
without yelling.
- patience is a virtue we can’t afford.
fat
women,
old women,
poor women,
trans women,
queer women,
jewish women,
women of color,
muslim women,
disabled women,
indigenous women,
mentally ill women,
chronically ill women,
neurodivergent women,
& all the people in
all the margins
of this page.
together & only together
shall we finally
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE. RISE.
RISE.
- no one will be left in dark, dusty corners.
point your
red gold palms
towards the
kingdom.
melt it.
melt it.
melt it.
resurrect
a queendom
in its
place—
a protected
sanctuary where
we can finally
be equal.
don’t
you dare
wait for
permission.
that’s never
gotten us
anywhere,
has it?
- they had their turn.
here’s
the tricky thing
about fire:
it stays soft
even while it
destroys
everything
in its
path,
but
it’s up
to you
to
make sure
that
it doesn’t
burn the
good
with
the rot.
- we can’t lose our empathy.
in the
dark den of the
witch-queens’
castle
we celebrate
a war won.
blood orange juices
dribble down
our
chins&necks,
caught by
tasting tongues.
strawberries
stain
our fingers
down to the knuckle,
cleaned by
moaning mouths.
raspberries
get tangled up
in our
braided hair,
picked out with
teasing teeth.
&
half-nibbled pluots
plop into
our laps,
retrieved by
first-time fingers.
- she loved the feast.
(homage to the poem “Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti)
don’t let anyone
make you believe
it’s not okay
for you to be angry
when you’re mistreated
time & time again,
but what happens
the next morning
when you go to
the window
to let the sun
warm your face
& you catch a glimpse
of the way the rays
reflect off the world
you intended to fix
but made
wreckage of
instead?
- we must be better than them.
when
this war ends
at last,
follow me
back out
into
the
quiet of the
day,
&
with your
tired palms
scoop up
a pile of the
rubble,
mourn it as it
falls through
your fingers,
& then
keep going.
there’s much work to do.
- reconstruction.
queens
do not need
to curtsy before
anyone.
queens
do not need
delicate kisses on
the back of their hands.
queens
do not need
to apologize before
making demands.
queens
do not need
to ask for anyone’s
approval.
&
in this castle
made of
witch-fire
we are all
motherfucking
queens.
- & they drank wine & laughed forever & ever.
as
a queen,
you have
two choices:
you can
be malevolent
& ensure
our end,
or
you can be
benevolent
& love
this world
back
to life.
- a new chapter awaits, witch-queens.
didn’t
you know
there
could be
shelves
upon
shelves
upon
shelves
of books
written
about
your
strength?
- as always, the women save themselves in this one.
know that anger has its limits
& act accordingly.
- coven rule #4
& silence.
today
you are
the fire
& tomorrow
you will be
the sea
& they’ll
have no choice
but to hear your siren song.
- amanda lovelace
until
next time:
shine so brightly
the men think you’re
guiding them into
the afterlife.
- you are invincible.
special acknowledgments
I. cyrus parker – thank you for staying patient with me while the writing process of this book tore me apart for months. i’ll never be able to fully express my gratitude for all that you’ve done for me over the years. you truthfully are the better half of me, my poet-husband. <3
II. christine day – bambi, my best friend, my writing cheerleader, & my sister-soul mate . . .
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