When I grow up I will be
younger than I am now,
with skin loose
enough to stretch around my ballooning
spirit, with bear paws
for hands, and the
feet of a cheetah.
I will partake of holy
sacraments,
and pray without ceasing,
in the fields and mountains and deserts and seductive
cityscapes. Knees blown out from bending, forehead smudged
with the dirt
of the earth. Holy
ground. Dirty degenerate,
brambled hair and bare feet, fish flowing through
my veins –
baptized every day in the cold rushing
water that moves without ceasing from and toward nothing.
From and toward everything.
When I grow up I will be
a bruja, a
thaumaturge, a formidable
witch, hell-bent on holy.
“A Visit To The Witch” by Edward F. Brewtnall, 1882
