Your witch’s kitchen always smelled
of sweetgrass through the window, jasmine
cuttings on the sill and tulips in a jar. There was
saffron bread cooling on the counter and spiced
cider on the stove. Wednesdays the screened
porch hinted laundry on a line and Fridays
were astringent in quicksilver
mirrors and glass.
Today I am drunk on your daffodils,
backsliding into my own dull house, rife
with dry tobacco and newsprint, trailing
behind your patchouli ghost in these
dust mote empty rooms where you
used to polish walnut with lemon
and smoke your slender
black and gold cigars.
