necromancer woman, witch woman
by Callie S. Blackstone
I
Did you know that in England, they call grandfathers
granfers? And in America, they call grandfathers
grandpas, pops, paws? In the universe of your poems,
you call your grandfather yellow man. In that universe
he lives his life out perpetually on a deathbed,
in a coffin, surrounded by flowers and the heavy scent
of loss, surrounded by grief, by family–
by you, you a boy
who wears feathers on his arms, poetry on his chest–
a chest that cradles loss and heartbreak, a body
that is an enduring question, loss, loss your universe
is one of loss and yellow men.
II
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote, my chest a heart that beats,
that reanimates, that winds up, but only
for a dead boy. You–you the dead boy,
dead husband, decaying suit and bundle of leaves,
a reservation for scallops and bones and elbows
grazing in bed, and and and my world is lost
and here I am writing you into it
III
and my boyfriend says he fears he’ll never cradle me
the way you did, his universe defined by loss after
loss of women who looked elsewhere, yet this is
a new one for him–a woman who looks to the dead
for warmth, necromancer woman, witch woman,
bring up the dead with a blink woman, with the right cup
of tea or vase of flowers woman, necromancer witch
woman who can call up love at will
This is new for him
