Today's poem is by Kari Gunter-Seymour

Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog
       

Where I'm from, girls learn
to conjure young—a dash of salt flung,
I lick my pointer finger, spin
three times, call forth the tufted trills
of wild beak and bone flute.
Early on, I partnered up, roused
with hope. What I got was someone
else's stiff neck, the shape
of someone else's arrogance
siphoning the pith from my spine.
My hollow bird bones winnow
stories I don't want to hear,
I shush each saga—too much
prattle, unweighted,
could damn well loose a demon.

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Copyright © 2024 Kari Gunter-Seymour All rights reserved
from Dirt Songs
Eastover Press LLC
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission