Three avocados rooting in the window
and a Meyer lemon cake on the sideboard
are yesterday’s lessons of contrition.

I tell whoever will listen, I’m done with
these habits of temperance, my gold silk
robe and Medusa hair mocking its own

tidy garden of snakes. It’s time to unlace
this absurd bustier and loosen each constraint
to purpose. I’m done here, do you hear?

I spin in taffeta song like a girl with her
fairy wand while wolves circle my cul de sac
unwilling to settle. I have come to believe

there are wood sprites
offering a fire ballet in my honor
and lightning bug static

to celebrate
this new mutiny, right here
in my witch’s kitchen.