She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
she doesn’t laugh as hard as the others at the old
woman who yells at kids walking by her herb garden.
She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
she still raises her arm to her neck, as if to twiddle that pentacle
necklace she threw away years ago, when she’s nervous.
She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
whenever she sees a rosemary bush, she always looks around
to make sure nobody’s watching before stuffing some in her pocket.
She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
she bows her head and closes her eyes whenever
anybody mentions Salem.
She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
when her friends ask her what she’s whispering under
her breath, she just shrugs her shoulders and hides her hands.
She tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches, but
she always stays as far away from the fire as possible,
as if one lick will bring pitchforks and torches.
And even though she tells people that she doesn’t believe in witches,
at night, in the dark, when nobody is around to watch,
she’ll stroke the wart she found nestled at the base of her back.
Wyeth Renwick’s poetry and short stories have appeared in issues and anthologies by The Confessionalist, Down in the Dirt, Daily Drunk Mag, and more. She is the founder and editor of the online poetry journal the tide rises, the tide falls. (litmag Twitter: @TFalls)
photo by Content Pixie (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 