The witch in the home

Angels trapped at home,

Laced edges of treasure boxes peeled off

Layered like pressed flowers, 

Floating like dove wings into the bright light,

Mind in abyss,

Body in abyss, 

Soul tied to anvil wiling away

Whittling figures that stand on stilted perches,

Watching and wondering over the snow blankets

To hold all her dreams for her;

Cupping their hands to not wet her blouse,

To tidy up the loose threads of her hair

Stitching pins and needles over the witch’s brew;

Stirring firs and coins into the witch’s brew,

Orphaned charms and forgotten hexes

Velvet stools and animal rugs pushed to the door,

Where the angel’s dreams,

Where the figure’s hands

Try not to get blood on the laces of her shoes