DIXIE WITCHES


"Why we're going bear hunting Sheriff
These swords are just in case the guns jam..."

We hike with lips pressed
close against the chill
falling open only to exhale
those little fairy clouds
the underbrush kissing
our trousers with dew

white fingers of elm
reflecting morning twilight
raccoons and sleepy birds
spreading the universal
password of no word in
the Silent Kingdom of Wild

for early on this
sweet iced tea morning
I am taking one very
underground tour of
a Georgia covenstead

But first I had to dial
a certain telephone number
at a time designated by
zodiac correspondences

longitudinal ley lines
sidereal time zone motions
and the window between
Bubba's heading to work
and the kids heading home

and reveal secret letters
from my old friend Redwolf
who would vouch for me
in Enochian of course

They knew seven Redwolves

Fortunately only three
lived as corporeal entities
so it only took a day to
confirm that I was indeed

a traveling hippie Witch
and not a Baptist spy who
looked too much like Jesus
for his own damn good

	* * *

My tour guide leads me to
the edge of a Fairy Ring
slender young children
growing around the memory
of a long-dead Granny tree

in the middle of which
a baby fresh bower of
wildflowers rests on
a waist-high boulder

neatly surrounded by
smaller stones painted
with arcane blessings to
Mother Earth and Father Horn

among an assortment of
small ceramic pentacles
brooms and ribbons
birdfeeders and birds

and the Mayor
the Chief of Police
the Pastor of the local
white Baptist church
and a camera crew

and none of them
are calling down
the sacred quarters

That night we watch
ourselves on the TV news
just a heathen collection
of fuzzy autumn leaves
rustling discreetly behind
Hizzoner who mugs the lens

while the Pastor wonders
aloud how soon the Chief
is going to get to the
bottom of this assault
on the town's dignity

Then we drink too much
Wild Turkey and fall
asleep on the sofa after
pushing it against the door

	* * *

Dixie Witches I kid them
as we trade gossip and lore
but they prefer to call
one another Lord and Lady
or Summoner and Scribe

for if they were to call
themselves Kate and Billy
and Solomon and Betty Flo
the neighbors would call them
gator bait and demon and
stay away from my kids

and every red-eyed sundown
one or another of them asks
why don't I just give it up
say good-bye to my Gods of
spiced wine and mama's milk

take apart my Witch's robe
stitch by blessed stitch
return to the fold like
a good little sheep
shorn of the wool
nobody else will wear

leaving behind only
a ring of trees rising
in a living Stonehenge
piles of dried up blossoms
and a cold smooth stone

Yet these kin of Scots rebels
runaway Indians African slaves
Irish indentured servants and
gold hunters who never found
so much as a fool's nugget

continue to sing old songs
just a bit too oddly for
the parish choir's taste
pick herbs on strolls
where the wind whispers
the names of yesterday

set candles by the window
hoping nobody will question
a pair of crimson flames
burning so proudly against
the clear Southern sky

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This poem is from On Pagan Roads Copyright © 2004 David Arv Bragi