I cut death off my neglected plants,
Not in sacrifice, in making room for new seeds of abundance.
I give them names and I tell them sweet stories to help them become their best selves.
I clean out my expired fridge,
Not in chore, in ceremony for new harvest.
I vacuum my carpet to clear decayed skin.
I use my broom to sweep dirt back to earth instead of myself to the stars.
Likewise, outside I collect fallen remnants of the season:
I hunt special sticks, particular pinecones and feathers.
I squeeze pimples and pluck hairs to reclaim my beauty
I cleanse myself and my crystals in essentials: oils and menses.
I touch myself softly for self-love and power.
I let fresh air into my bedroom to cancel out cheap candles and twice burnt sage.
I send silent wishes on wings of birds and butterflies.
I let the fruit fly live at the last moment,
My tiny hands an automatic weapon that won’t fire.
I laugh wildly at the crows jokes.
I converse with ghosts about the weather.
I recite names of flowers like scripture.
I roar like a lion to scare away my demons.
I wear a dead man’s necklace.
I sit in stillness –not boredom.
Then I revel in all the nothingness.
Melissa Pollock has been writing poetry for twelve years and although new to publishing –she is excited to be submitting work for review. Melissa’s writing conveys her fascination with spirit, the occult, the wild nature of women, and synthesizing opposites. She is a trained therapist, she enjoys spending time with her family, and practicing her craft.