Witch Bottle
2 Minutes Read Time
indebted to The Love Witch, Hélène Cixous’s “What is it o’clock? or
The door (we never enter),” Julia Kristeva’s Powers of Horror, and
Mark J. Blechner’s The Dream Frontier
the night I watched The Love Witch dreamt of walking through a field
field in every direction night gathered at the hip bone
I might have been naked I might have been clothed
a string pinched in two fingers held flush against the thigh
so much in dreams
you know, already: tampon dark red, mine.
dream to dream, I carried it— gone blood
my suffering who I was today my childhood
how the dogwood arrived in all the same . . .
lover’s dream luncheon dream rabbit catching
slatted light a field alone
beside myself,
train ride . . . my grandmother’s porch roses pink
across the street, cancer season, and only in my mind.
disjunctive cognitions, how dreams go on uncreased by
incongruities: my sister, though it didn’t look like her;
my grandmother, alive; boundaryless,
thing of me knocking at my thigh.
a given: the abject:
in waste, my constant death.
I miss you. loss I will not lose.
red beginning to red end
red fruit clotting in the trees
in sleep I bottle rosemary, tampon, needles, piss;
in the morning I write down my dreams.
everything born borne and bled
gold and soaking, all my memories.
Read more from Issue 20.2.
