Sweater buttoning down the back, dark flower crown, velvet
laced boots—so full of content.
Right to save for later. Right
to leave to rot. In the plug hole so much debris not living
it’s ritual potential.
My phone is a radio this morning, telling me
the witch is a threat because her ethics are her own.
Whose hair still writhing.
Where do I purchase an ethic.
I have this arsenal of ethanol, excellent selfie lighting
and stomped-in elegance; this arsenic of aspiration.
Pinterest boards of visions, mystic as plastic cutlery. Imitation
is categorized as primitive magic
but I just Googled
“Kim Kardashian dress size,” the sum of sophisticated
machine and mass production—machinating the myth
that poison is a woman’s art. The body with arsenic rejects:
vomit, blood vomit, hair loss. It was beautiful,
of rich green lushing the wall, the fondant layers of Victorian
dresses dyed with arsenic. Died for the love of it,
misnomered bitten by witch fever. I’m trying not to say dressed to kill.