Some thieves
are nearer the blood.
Staved back between
three witches, borrowing
of night what muses
borrow from their poets.
My own mother,
herself a witch doctor
unrealized, thrust hexes
unto her children. Small
shavings of coca, small
fingers against our toes.
Animals, a personified
cat in her gaze. The air
sweet, satsumas in
the courtyard.
