Witchcraft

Witchcraft

Abigail Langmead

Bridget’s hands were crossed behind her back With ropes coiled around them, like the snakes The villagers whispered she spoke to in the night.

There was a hand wrapped across Anita’s shoulder With nails digging into her skin, feeling like iron. And they called her a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

Thrust forward down cobbled streets Joan closed her eyes as she approached. Everyone shouted, blurring into nonsense words Primal roaring, and burning rage.

Alexandria shuttered, hiding in history’s halls Believing her work would be ending and beginning, Because she wasn’t alone, even if she felt it As the wolfpack tried to pull her apart.

Those are the woman we were born from, The names are a reminder of our coven’s name. Those are the women we remember in every moment; We are ungrateful for our newfound gifts.

They expected magic to be the devil’s work When to me, embracing myself feels like bliss.

They expected magic to be a transformation to something else entirely When instead, we have transformed the world around us into Something else.

Because we do not cast spells on ourselves, Although some may claim otherwise, Saying that we brush our wands across our faces. We cast spells on this whole fucking world, And we remind ourselves of who we were Every day before.

The risks of our witchcraft, And the power behind it. The women they scorned— And the women we’ll become.

Since every ancient story calls us witches for being Strong, and perhaps a bit wicked. We may as well take the title.