Wednesday, November 10th, 2010...2:17 am

pris campbell | witchcraft & precipice

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When dinner is done, plates put away,
when witches mount their stout brooms,
I release what still binds me…

My dirty secret.

I sing of those nights
I saw him do things
to that child who no longer was me,
but only some semblance of me.

My stand-in.
My prone, breathing diary
of foreshortened memories
inscribed by this man who bartered
his soul for one tiny shudder
into a child’s silenced cry.

I shear off a lock of my hair,
burn it as sacrifice to witches
and children who fly now where I did,
give thanks to the coven of women
whose spells lifted me
from what no child should bear
in songs sung en sotto again.


Under the hammocked bend
of a shrinking sky,
the latticework of moaning
trees poking into lost illusions,
you and I walk a path
littered with missing friends
and once bright-eyed lovers.
Older now, we no longer
put up our peaches for winter.
We are swept aside
as the buffalo streak past,
plunging over the edge
of the approaching precipice.
You hold me until the dust settles,
then pick flowers, weave them
into a pink & blue halo for my hair.

More on Pris Campbell can be found by clicking here… and visit her website here…an her blog, Songs To A Midnight Sky


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