Season of the Suburban Witch

A.R. Riley

It’s the season of the suburban witch.
Bury your sins on parchment
break your knuckle skin
and mandarin flesh.

It’s the season of the suburban witch.
Sing the hymns and lament
beneath a wreath
of violet flowers picked fresh.

Shrimp gumbo, wooden spoon
elephant ivory, gardenia perfume.

Bathtub soup, stirring
until a bead of sweat falls
against tattooed palms.

It’s the season of the suburban witch.
Drug store wax pentagram
a train at 2am.
Cactus flower tongue piercing.

It’s the season of the suburban witch.
Crumpets and blackberry jam
pale sky and black spires,
toads kissing beneath an Aries full moon.

It must be the season of the suburban witch.
Threadbare stonewash denim,
chamomile tea and nicotine stains.

Bury and break your stitches,
mandarin flesh and earthly riches,
it must be the season of the witches.

A.R. Riley is a Third Year Creative Writing student with a penchant for dramatic fantasy stories and poetry that follows no poetry rules. They love medieval swords and strong coffee.