Eleanor Lerman

Witch, Walking

​

It’s the damp, gray hour 

just after dawn. A light wind, hesitant:

not sure yet whether to lay a claim

upon the day

And here is me: old, getting older,

a woman with a small dog

A modest dog. I am a modest person,

waking, dressing to take my pet

out into the possible wind

Also: in this poor county

of women and witches,

it is the hour when witches

are permitted to walk their dogs; 

always, they stay on their side of

the street, I stay on mine

Here, in this county of

wreckage and grief  

at least this is a safe hour:

No spells are cast, no damage 

is done. In acknowledgment, 

we wear our traditional costumes:

For me, my old frayed jacket;

for the witch (my witch),

a long black dress, torn in places,

with a dirty hem. And she has 

a cloudy eye

Sometimes, she nods at me

and I nod back. Her dog is 

enormous—actually, I think

it is a wolf. Red eyes, sharp teeth—

exactly what you would expect

Then as the years go by, I sometimes think

that I hear this animal speak to me

In truth, the dog I have now 

is not my first dog. This is not 

my first witch. And now, in this life,

things seem to be repeating themselves

The house gets cleaned, the groceries

are delivered. I try to hide

the damp gray hours in the closet

but you know how the story

will be told:

She crossed the street. The faithful

dog followed. But even I can’t tell

anymore if I ever went home