Foxglove
Murder cocooned in me,
became a moth waiting
for the right lantern,
witch’s gloves sprung
from burnt ground,
sinister beauty waiting
to disrupt the heart,
whisper it down into
a still forever quiet. After
the digitalis bloomed
I lay in bed at night
and felt it glowing
outside my window,
mouths of speckled
pink screaming I dare
you I dare you I dare.
Harvesting with covered
hands, I am careful
even as I long to feel
the soft-petaled face
of sly death.
They say the plant
prickles and stings,
say it lights on the tongue
like a bitter flame.
But what does poison
really taste like? When I ask
it’s too late.
Invocation
If wood will rot,
take up a staff of lead.
If they would bind you,
carry a knife.
If there is ritual,
crack it open.
If they want pretty,
show your teeth.
If they want venom,
give them honey.
If they want martyrs,
choose survival.
If there is power,
better claim it.
If they fear witches,
be the witch.
Ann V. DeVilbiss has had work in BOAAT, Crab Orchard Review, The Maine Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of the 2017 Betty Gabehart Prize in poetry and an Emerging Artist Award from the Kentucky Arts Council. She lives and works in Louisville, Kentucky.