WITCHES NEVER SAY GOOD-BYE


They just banish themselves
like elemental spirits
sent off to the winds at
the close of a great Sabbat
flames snuffed out
water flowing to sea

But Witches
never say good-bye

They merely cut themselves
out of magic circles
with the flourish
of sorcerer and sage
doff the wax-stained
robes of coven heart
trade shrouded passwords
for shrouded thoughts

But Witches
never say good-bye

They only balance two
callused Witch's feet
upon the stone and steel
peaks of Mama City
praying that She spit
them from Her womb
set them free at last to
stumble upon Her rural Sister's
good earthen flesh where
the world between worlds
is not so crowded

But Witches
never say good-bye

They dance the last waltz
with Lady Athena
Witch Queen High Priestess
Sacred Initiate of the Turtle
and the best barkeep
in Lower Manhattan
whisper promises to remember
these days of spells and glory
to ever speak the truth
keep silent about the rest
and occasionally mix them up
to keep up our reputation

But Witches
never say Good-bye

They quietly give Redwolf
a mahogany quarterstaff
carved with kisses of
bloody tooth and bone
leave Mindy a more tender
touch of parting lips and
a week's prepaid bar tab
at the Lady's Horn Saloon

But Witches
never say good-bye

They quickly paint
mysterious symbols on
the back door to their
mysterious Witches' lairs
paint over the deadbolt
add a fake doorknob
next to the hinges and
leave no footprints
on the way out

But Witches
never say good-bye

Instead they slip herbs
flowers potions incense
old books shadow books
address books blades cups
plates wands amulets oils
boils toils and troubles
into their little black
Witches' saddlebags and
ride into the sunset

But Witches
never say good-bye

Neither do they
unbaptize themselves
pray walk talk or
make love backwards
set bibles on fire
before news cameras
fizz out into piles
of sulfurous dust
or melt on down
the castle wall

But Witches
never say good-bye

and what they do say is
a fourth-degree bad-assed
old wives' tale secret
fit only for those souls
whether wives or husbands
or just footloose Heathens
who truly know to where
the night owl flies

and it seems that
they have already
said good-bye

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