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necromancer woman, witch woman

necromancer woman, witch woman

necromancer woman, witch woman

by Callie S. Blackstone



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.

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

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

Callie S. Blackstone’s work appears or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Lily Poetry Review, Capsule Stories, Rust+Moth, West Trestle Review, and others. She is a lifelong New Englander. She is lucky enough to wake up to the smell of saltwater and the call of seagulls everyday. You can find her online home at