My mind skates on needles and puzzles.
Each sip of whiskey reminds me of a worry.
Will the dead tree fall?
Will mold grow where I can't find it?
Will my parents die?
The sound of chopping coconuts distracts me,
so I take another sip.
The ice clinks in my glass, making my dog tilt her head, wondering if it's too early.
The chopping shifts to sharpening, reminding me of witches.
I know a few.
They teach me about the rain pouring down, thundering over my words, how dreams are lessons that are always good, and how spilling rum keeps spirits drunk and tired.
I can't see the ocean through the mist, although I know
I wonder what else is there I've never seen.
Things lighten up as my glass is close to empty.
I return to witches that visit my house, bringing laughter and sex and truth.
The kind of truth that pisses off clouds and statues and nighttime sleep.
My head is foggy like in the gulch, where the valley, deep and long and steep, waits to catch the lonely and poor.
I was poor when I was young, but being rich was worse.
It's full of wizards, secrets and smoke. Masks, edges and glass smiles.
The light across the treetops brings hope.
She rides through my home, on a broom, with a face carved from the hands of the abused.
From the dark our beauty can shine if we choose to live, covering scars with words that ignite, like he never loved me, or he needs space, or I remind him of his mother.
If not, we leave our kin to suffer in guilt for not calling back, or saying I mean so much to him,
or thinking he let me down.
They're gone I know, the ones who used to be here, but can't anymore.
One day that'll be me, but not yet,
because there's still something I'm looking forward to, something I can't yet see.