Fate of Motes

Sticks, feathers, string, lavender sprigs.

Coffee with cream in a delicate, white mug.

What relationship do you have to family ties or witches or the praying mantis that eats her lover while still mating? Cailleach paces with deliberation as she prepares to exhale the last warm breaths of summer. Lately, my body begins to release the small chards of glass it subsumed as a youth.

A certain happiness simmers while building my own apothecary. Full moon, grounding, the pull to add herbs to Michigan hibernation. Am I bear, a witch, or an impetuous child? A man said, “thank you, goddess” when assisted with a small matter at work and for days I wondered if I am truly anyone's goddess.

I sweep the floor, dust surfaces and purge anything not useful or beautiful. Are you still here or have you claimed the fate of motes, fading in and out of sunlight?

Kora curls up in the corner, dry under the eaves, rain finally unleashing itself from miles of atmosphere. She reminds me that loyalty is similar to complacency. Speaking of which, I recently learned what quilts meant to the women who endured the early quests of colonial men. Virgin fingers counting stitches. Don't confuse collar bones for wishes.

Pearl buttons, nautilus shells, a crayfish skeleton. But what would his lips feel like? God asks if I really need to know. There is no trickery in these sentences, but one must enter careful attention.

One last thing to remember: never touch Father's things, for you will never be indulged.