I am
 
a witch
 
 
 
—a cat lady—

I speak spells

to my familiar

–my pet—

Evil spells!!

–scolding—

In the manner of:

No!

and:

Bad cat!

Sometimes employing potions of water

in spray bottles

to seal the deal

–I speak good spells, too—

Like:

Sweet boy,

and good grrrrr-l

and

No Bad Cat

since there aren’t

and my cat colludes with me

to make them so

–he meows—

when I meow

–speaking in tongues–

and the language we share

Belly rub to purr

Frightens

those too sensible

–cold—

to share their lives with an animal…

The room is just

As I left it

. . .

A read riot

of

toys gathering dust

. . .

–that coats my skimming hands

and engraves

my barefoot soul

–already hopping—

to

Let Go…

Things are missing now

–but maybe missing then

. . .

The rhyming puzzles

–short on edge pieces,

which is funny since

I seem to remember a surfeit of just such pieces–

(Though not what they looked like)

The imagination colors

–an aMaZing box of 94!

Dwindled to…ohhh…

maybe 57 at best

–my favorite colors melted into the carpet by the window–

where the sun spilled in all summer long

–the summer too hot to play outdoors—

And the alphabet blocks

–with which fantastic words were spelt—

are chipped and worn

–particularly I

Oddly doubled

–in the case of C

And absent

–referencing U

(but I rearrange a few anyway, cobbling meaning from the jumble)

True,

the inspiration tablet

seems permanently

Etched

With a Sketch

both clumsy and unfinished,

but if I shake it really hard

the darker images

Fade

–enough; they fade well enough–

and concentrating

on the third of the screen

yet remaining,

I twist knobs

with the one hand,

and absently

start constructing another house

–of cards?

–of Lincoln Logs?

–of Dreams?

With the other.

from Whole Lotta Rosie

to Sweet Caroline,

Mrs. Robinson

to Eleanor Rigby

–surnames growing more notable, to allow for future stalkers–

the costume changes weren’t exactly seamless,

but they were inexorable
 
 

and tired of bait-n-switch games

(where I never intended to buy the faces in my Inbox at all)

I learned who the face in the jar was for…

Me.

Branded in the manner of memes

Tattooed with ink borne and borrowed

. . .

Nameless in the way of the Tao

The infinity of me

in dark matter

. . .

in spangled, cosmetic cosmos.

I called my son

Horatio

(his nickname was Hooray)

his Sis

(Boom Bah)

was known as Rah

and shorter way to say

-Quel

. . .

surpreesed?

That makes me pleesed

–and partner–

(Nick by name)

Mi nombre’s Jamie,

but you could say

me,

likes

to go by

yAy!!

Clearly labeled resentment,

I open the jar anyway

–since she and I made it–

and I miss her

the old her

and the

then me

we were together once.

Ignoring the skull & crossbones,

thoughts twist but

the lid of the jar

is stubborn and stuck in place

–like her—

and it take several more thoughts

of her

–none of them good

and all of them bad—

to get that damn jar to give even a little,

and in those few seconds

. . .

in those thoughts

the current she pops out of that jar

–large and in charge and suddenly and

weirdly unexpectedly, too–

like those stupid gag peanut cans

you give as white elephants,

the coils of hurt and thwart

and righteousness

(we both added)

–spring out

dripping with seething,

and stewing in congealed

bitterness,

smack me in the heart

and leave me breathless

–so hard I cap that jar

doubletime–

screwing bits of its coiled contents

into the threaded top in my haste,

and toss it into

the back of my simmering mind,

wishing it wasn’t in my pantry at all.

The next jar is also well-marked,

fancy calligraphic letters against

pastel gradations

spell L-o-v-e,

(and what a spell it was)

and I can’t resist

opening that one, too,

–though the jar is ancient—

since I miss him terribly

–the terribly how he went—

and the us we

were together once.

Disregarding the expiration date

–because some things never die—

I test the top on this one,

and it gives easily

–too easily—

like I did myself once,

and the contents of the jar expands through my fingers

and consume me

adding just the right amount of tears to the inside

to grow

like those gagging foam worms

that expand when

you add water to them

and before I know it,

the composition of ingredients

changes

–like the boiling point of any number of elixirs–

or maybe just the contact with fresh air,

and I am lost in overflowing

pain, remorse

and loss

and it’s all I can do to

even locate the lid to that jar

–blinded by my stupid tears–

before the mess we made

causes third-degree drowning,

and once tightened,

I set it carefully back on

the biggest ledge of my shattered heart,

right in the middle of its emptiness

–and wish I thought to stock up

before that jar had been

discontinued.

The last jar

that makes a difference

is different,

and is unfailingly labeled you,

and like you it’s

dusty and

it’s BIG

and the label is peeling

–but intact—

and it’s been in there as long as I can remember

(which isn’t saying much these days)

and I think of you,

now and again and

from time to endless time,

and the we

we never got to be

and I miss that hunger

I had for you once.

Thoughts spiral

into familiar dreams,

edged with unmixed nightmare,

and the stopper

stops stopping

–a feature?

–a failure?

–a facet?

of this jar I remember to always forget,

and the contents of this jar

surprise

(even now)

in their lack of coalescence

–chunks of longing,

desire and reverence,

float

next to despair,

shame and regret

(nearer the bottom there)

and all of it contained

and fully separated

a nod to its disparity

–and I reach into this jar

for that

which came before,

–to see

if I can sieve

the good remaining

free.

The words she chose

were the old ones

the ones whose definitions were Webster’s

–staid like that–

lacking even a hint

of colloquialism, gradation or banana cream pies
 

creating a background hum

and largely disregarded

as the habit of time

in a watched pot

(nearby)

coils over, slithers and strikes!

(without even one switchback)

Changing everything in an instant

to which it had been building all along

–on the DL

–on the QT

in that pot of watches

whose functions were diminished

by Dick Tracy first

but ultimately Apple

that started the whole thing

–in a garage?

–in a garden?

–in agreement?

it makes no difference

in the end

(of time)

and cessation

(of words)

or downfall

(of man)

even an emoji Jesus

could predict that

–whose 5 slaughtered fishes

lacking the power of expression

–colloquial, gradated or otherwise–

concealed unimagined pain.

You have to carpe diem

or fate will pass you by…

since seeing carp

— don’t free ’em —

for that you need to fly *

so don’t wait–

* bait & seize ’em

unless you don’t fish fry…