Witch

I think that I'd have been happy
if I'd been born a witch.

Without any toes but still able
to dance, and ride above
the steeples of
this green Jerusalem's churches.

To creep in through the chimney pots,
to make brews in the dark,
to draw a set of lots
on each Samhain
to see whose cattle dies this night.

A mark impervious to pain
spread out inside one arm, a dark wine stain
that says I'm joined
in what God leaves as undiscerned,
the skittering, the sins conjoined.