Witch’s Curse by Tawni Vee Waters

There is an eye
behind my eyes
where secrets come to me
hidden things
I would rather not know.
I ask them to leave me,
but it seems
the chosen of the gods
can never be


Would I live as a mortal
if I could?

What would I give to sit with them
in the marketplace
talking, laughing,
eating yeasty bread
not knowing the secrets sands
shifting in the deserts of their heads.
Oh, to be blind
to simply believe
that grass was only grass
that stars were only stars
to not have a mind that leapt
to the ragged corners of eternity
questioning angels.

If only the angels didn’t answer.

I have seen
You ask me to unsee Her now
calling my lucidity
and how can I explain
what I know?
How can I tell you that I have watched
dead things rise again,
that I do not have the luxury
of doubt?
You will never see the things I do.

I could tell you what is coming
strumming strings
on the guitar of the future
until they speak
pouring out prophecies,
but you would not believe me.
You would call it coincidence.
Or worse, you would call me a devil
strip me naked
flay me in the streets
offer my meat on a pyre
to the vile thing
you call God.

Our flesh is the same,

but our souls came
from different worlds.
This is my curse.
I must pretend
every second of every day
to be one of you.
This life, I know how to behave
hiding my light under a bushel.

Men have loved me, but

one by one,
they saw the sun in my eyes
called it Satan
stumbled onto my magic
(sometimes it slips out unbidden)
and sentenced me:


The Christ whose name you have profaned,
my only husband,
whispers in my ear each night
comforts me
calling me “beloved.”

Be glad that my path

is paved with love.  Were I to take off my gloves,
my Mother’s light might flow from my fingers,
incinerate you where you stand.
This is no fairy tale, no child’s game.
The power that lives in my hands
scares even me.   Try as I might
I cannot begrudge you your fear.

I remember all the times
you crucified me.

I could show you the corn maze
where I died last life.
You raped me as I went,
after I fell among the sweet plants,
pressing a bloody painting of Mary
to my shattered breasts,
whispering Love’s name to my home in