When you converted to vampirism
you took me with you like a schoolgirl crush
and renamed me in her image. You carried your
halo well—a wisp of cloudlight through the pub
window when you told me I belong in the chapel
of bones, that making a pilgrimage to the town
built on death would suit my medieval fixations.
But with ink held under our tongues like cyanide
– Camus, Pessoa – we hadn’t grown up. Your voice
was a needle skip around a pistol grip, while I cider-
drenched wraiths only I could see. We based ourselves
on bloodstains, never let on we’d sunbleached them to dust;
we never let on these winding sheets were lifted
from a well-mannered airing cupboard, the emperor’s
new shrouds – hiding inside them with hearts that still beat.
Witchling
for Saoirse
She chatters
to cats, birds, foxes
in breath and whispers,
but real enchantment is found
in certain grown-ups (who would
send most children into the forest
with less than crumbs) who say she
is charming in spite of themselves.
“Oh I could just eat her!”
they cry, reminiscent of wolves,
of gingerbread houses—
but this creature
with her two-tone hair
and her soul-pressing stare
will not allow it:
she reverses every legend,
turns hexes on their heads
without a mirror, without an oven
without a circle of salt,
without one
poison apple
in sight.
Kate Garrett is the managing editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron and Picaroon Poetry, and her own writing is widely published online and in print. She is the author of several pamphlets, most recently You’ve never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017), and Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018). Kate grew up in rural southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she still lives in Sheffield with her husband, five children, and a sleepy cat.
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