“Making the Right Choices”

After Witchy Life Story

I’m digging through my trash can

for the recipe I accidentally

threw out when I was drunk

last night. Should I know how

to make every potion by heart?

Yea, maybe. But have you ever been

in love? I put a bag of unpopped

popcorn in the freezer. I knocked over

the mini crystal display on my

altar. Is it even okay to still

call it an altar if the only things

I ever want to summon or honor anymore

are you and that ass? The mayor stopped

by earlier and kept knocking

so aggressively that I dragged

my bones from bed

just to be handed

more work from the town. What are you

wearing right now? Why does “across town”

feel like you’re worlds away? I hate

scrying but tarot cards can’t cut it

when it comes to you. Is there a future

behind all this mess? Once The Harvest

Festival has come and gone,

will you still want to lie soft between

the rows of soil my body is made of,

hopes dancing high up on the roof like

Santa Claus come winter? We reap

what we sow. We bury what’s dead

deep within the earth, giving failures

back to the ground

we slept on last night. The recipe

isn’t in here.

In the trash can, I mean. I’ll wing it.

Hand me what you want. What

flavors and energies do you prefer?

Tell me. I want to know every

little inch. I want inches to grow

into miles. I want/I want/I want.

You want, too. There's no hiding

from someone who's friends

with the moon.

Settle. I hear music every time

you stand up, and I’m trying

to concentrate. You aren’t

a witch like me, but

you still guide

whole universes, letting planets

sift through your fingers, collapse

cupped in your hands

like you’re

about to throw a set of

wooden runes onto the table

to figure out if our hearts

match like shoes.

Beloved, we don’t need divination.

Everything is clear. Everything is you.

Extra Lives is a regular videogame poetry and prose column by Rachel Tanner.