Witch Doctrine

poems

Annah Browning

• Editore: The University Of Akron Press
• Anno: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781629221663
• Argomento: Literatura
• Categoria: Mujeres en la poesía

Annah Browning's poetry collection Witch Doctrine is a gothic instruction manual for how to exist in a heartbreaking world. Through a series of spell poems and a cast of haunting personas—including a sentient house, a mentoring witch, and a housekeeping ghost—Browning leads the reader in dark and slyly humorous mediations on mortality, loss, feminist power, and survival: "you'll take / another branch for the fire / and you will make it."

II.

Spell for a Daughter

Have a daughter, call her Asylum.

Have a daughter, call her Better

Late. Have a daughter.

Call her Christian. Call her

Beget-by-Fate. She is the called-

back, she is a dead horse,

she is the one arisen, and she

is lovely. She holds your hand

until it purples. She twists

her hair until it’s snakes.

She is born, she is born,

she is born. She whispers

to you—always late and

never better. Always in

the lake and shining. She is

your daughter, you beget

her. Her teeth are even

and small, and they wait.

Dream of Flat Hills

I went a long time into the disquiet.

I called my names out. Skies

were clearing. Stones like jawbones

covered the field. There

was a long crease—the place

where hills had met. I said,

I’ll try and lie down here; I’ll try

and get some sleep. Murderers

stood on the edge of the deep

and were lonely. They waved

all their shovels at me—goodness—

goodness, I said—it must

be something like this.

To the Salt Gator

Piano key belly, scales like

calico corn. Your one eye

gone white from salt-blindness,

river-animal too long

in the sea. I see your smooth

hooks, your eye-teeth

above water, jaws open

and shut like a new

book. Your tongue says chicken,

horse meat, unfortunate

goat, but your neck reads salt

line, sand, an open boat—

how hard you had to swim

to figure out a new

darkness there, each waterfowl

receding, the sun’s white

feathers collapsing into the mouth

of an older god.

Dear Ghost:

I am not good at telling

if you are real. Do me

the favor of existing,

please. Press your face

into the burn of the toast,

or clearly film the bathroom

mirror. I would love

to call you ghost, or house-

mate, or even house—

is that you in the pipes,

whistle-buddy? I don’t

know. I drink my coffee

black as hair. When I

come inside, I cradle

the newspaper like a child,

a gray baby full of new

bad words. Did I say it

out loud, this bit about

the eye cancer that burrows

in the rods and cones?

A color-cancer. I think

you like things faded.

I think you love an oatmeal,

a wet sock, the salt line

on a boot. Where the world

licks us, passing by.

Collector of Luck

I am afraid there is

something terrible

wrong with me. I go

about my night things.

My walk makes a sound

like this, this—this, this—

footsoles shushing

the floorboards, whispering,

Trust—that the stair will be

there, when I’m able

to cross it. When I can. I look

in on my books like infants—

Oh, you sleep so well, Jericho,

and Deuteronomy, and all

the other names I keep

in books with leaves

and four-leaf clovers—or

almost four-leaf clovers.

Whatever luck is possible

in pressed lettuce, or tulips—

what is too full of rain

to really keep, but not

to love. This penny

I glue to the bottom

of my shoe, keep treading

on—the face of the dead

good man kissing

whatever I cross.

Where to Look for Ghosts

Places you can pin one:

under a backseat; smeared

into a cushion with gum;

a long reflection

in a butter knife; sawdust

from building

an unused piece

of furniture. Dying plants,

mice removed from

a carbine harvester.

Willow trees. In the purses

of old women who live

by lakes. Fertilizer, seeds

scattered on a windowsill;

rain left to dry most

anywhere. Violent thoughts,

syrup left blackening

on the tabletop; ink on the fat

of a palm. Forks with broken

tines, held up like a hand

after a mechanical mishap—

phantom pain.

Widow: Out-of-Body Experience

My persona sits in the room.

Her eye reflects the fire

like a struck match. These

are her hands, shuddering,

her teeth graying with

the afternoon. No one here

is carnivorous now that he

is gone. The plants continue

their silent drinking from root...