BY SOPHIE ALLEN
the spell, to be read
under a waxing crescent moon:
& it starts with a cauldron— no, fuck
a cauldron— you’ll want a pint of ben & jerry’s
(i like phish food)
& to light a candle: look for one left over
from xmas, probably called something cute
like sparkling cinnamon snow
or seasonal depressive disorder
or spiced white cocoa
remember specifically to use
a scented one so the burnt-plastic
smell of your melting polaroids
(from the yellow camera he bought you)
is masked by a pleasant winter wick.
it has stormed
—after the witches
for hours, and i am reminded of shakespeare,
of witches’ brews, of something wicked
this way comes. closer than before,
onyxing over blue the air smells of rain.
gull-pocked clouds swirl over my head,
ozoned and heavy. i shiver.
soaked to the bone, i sting my soles on puddles
and pavement. thunder cracks and the sky streaks
white. it opens up again, fresh raindrops
come like shadow, so depart, dissolving into heat
and salt air. they burn my lip, split between teeth,
trickle bloody business down my chin.
i am going to be fine.
the mothman visited me
& we talked beside the rhododendrons, or
more specifically, we discussed
the way the moonlight fluttered
through his paper wings & i saw
the veins, a flowchart, the way
rhododendrons can be hybridized—
caroline, a pink flower named for a daughter.
Sophie Allen is a student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. She once worked in a haunted convenience store. Find her on Twitter: @sallentxt.
Please note that the italics in "it has stormed" are from Macbeth.