This Online Shopping Habit Is Sympathetic Magick

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,

the palette

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.

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