On sex with a witch
At first you don’t even know she’s one. She doesn’t look or act like one. She might not even dress like one. She’s not trying to trick you. It’s just that, you’ve tricked yourself, you see. They come in so many colors and sizes, you can never be too sure. There is not a set wardrobe or uniform, she wears what she wants because she does what she wants.
Then you see a spider web, but it’s her hair, then it’s a web again. From under her nails fall petals, from underneath her hair are feathers. There’s soot under her breast, ash under her tongue. You try to act cool. You think, This is strange maybe it's something I ate, yet you go about your business making love to her. You don’t even realize what all that stuff means. And it is something you ate. You ate her.
She never takes off her rings, not if they’ve gold or stones. You will find dried flowers or small dead things in her pockets, maybe even in her panties. Don’t run off, not so quickly. You haven’t even see the best part yet.
You see her cooking and with some shakes of a wrist, the oregano and bay, the blessed black pepper, the mysterious rosemary of Sunday. It will be the best tasting soup you’ve even had despite the lack of so many things. And you will feel like floating or youthing –you won’t be able to explain it. Just have another bowl. It might make sense then.
She will smell of dirt and spices. She will be covered in oils. Her breath of tree bark, walnut shells, licorice, hazelnuts.
Teas will be of leaves and stems –not that bagged crap. Spices will be locally bought or dried by she. She is friends with all branches of trees, all tree branches. There’s at least one lurking in her house, she might call it wand or offer it to a goddess or deity. Twigs will be found scattered about. Don’t be surprised to leave with some yourself.
There will be times she goes missing, but she’s not. You just haven’t looked in the right spots. It hasn’t become clear to you that what she looks like today might not be what she looks like tomorrow. And of course the time of day matters; the sun-she is way different than the moon-she. She’s usually right where you left her. You have to look harder. Or she’s off fucking nature. She’s faithful to her first love. Don’t be hurt. And don’t judge her. Be glad she’s able to express her root energy in less conventional forms. That’s a girl worth keeping.
She might say things like, Did you see that shadow? Did you feel that? The connection she has to the earth is as if a surgeon x-ray eyed his patients and never had to cut open a single one. Just because many say so, it doesn’t mean she likes blood. And don’t be spooked, she’s not the ghost. It’s not her, it’s all the others.
Talking to plants and animals might freak you out, but until you’ve had sex with her while she spins an energy orb above your head, you haven’t seen nothing yet. She will know about people she doesn’t know. She will have voices that say right or left, right or wrong, write or spell.
At night, when you’re asleep, if you should be lucky enough to stay over, she might whisper things. If you wake up and hear her, don’t panic. Stay still, I warn you. She’s praying or talking to her guide –one isn’t different than the other, one is of the other. Just don’t start panicking, best you listen. You won’t recognize the language, but it might sound familiar. Try not to move. You’ll mess up her concentration. You don’t want to send her zooming back to earth. Astral travel is a delicate creature. Don’t worry, if you stick around long enough, she’ll teach you how to do it.
There should be a plate somewhere full of flowers and strings and feathers and twigs and fingernails. It should have a candle nearby and a glass of water. Don’t touch that stuff. It’s none of your business. Unless she tells you to touch it. It could be a very good sign for you. Or the end of things. You’ll never know, will you. You’ve been warned.
Her choice in music reflects the spirit who’s chosen to inhabit her for that day. Don’t let the eclectic range give you doubts. She is more sure about herself than most girls or women her age. She has no age. Never ask her age.
If you should feel her heartbeat, it’s probably the loud thumping of the giant or giants who live inside her. We carry things within us we cannot always explain or contain. She, pleased with all the company. Some giants are human, others are beast. Most are animals of her own creation.
She will swallow parts of you with such ease you will call it a miracle. Or at the very least hot. She does that because she’s taking your essence, she’s renewing your cells. And in the process she’s anti-aging the hell out of her DNA. Our fluids are medicine. Should she ask for your blood, give it.
Her hand will feel both hot and cold. When you touch her, you will feel both floating and grounding. Her spinal cord holds the memory of all past energies. Perhaps a coiled up fern is the best description. Making love to her is like a snake eating its own tail.
She is one, don’t be afraid. And never be ashamed. She might not ever call herself one. She might wait months or years before she shares that part of you with her. It won’t be for lack of confidence or anything like that. It will be because of what they say about girls like her. It will be because she knows what they think. She watches them study the pentagram necklace or tattoo. She reads their thoughts. She is from all elements. She is in all things. She is now in you because you have made love to a witch.
Bio: jacklyn janeksela can be found @ felled limbs, Oddball Magazine, The Nervous Breakdown, Berfrois, Barrelhouse, Uut Poetry, Pig Latin, Thought Catalog, Luna Magazine, & Talking Book. forthcoming in WhiskeyPaper, Reality Hands, Manneqüin Haüs, & DumDum Magazine. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @ femalefilet. more art @ artmugre & a clip. she is an energy.
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