make no apologies; accept no apologies.

  - coven rule #3.

  IV. the ashes

  there’s the whole story as it was told to me. the witches took the flames meant to eradicate them & turned them back on their killers instead. can you believe they ever thought they would get away with it? i know, i know. now i pass a handful of the sparks to you, daring one. show them the same mercy they showed our ancestors all those years ago. (none, none, none.) let us write their story in the ashes of their enemies, & then we can finally finish what they started.

  if nothing else, we will make certain they’ll never be granted the opportunity to silence us again.

  don’t be scared. even if you don’t believe in yourself, i believe. i’ve always believed in you.

  you know just what to do.

  - the last lesson in fire.

  they

  said

  poetry

  was dead,

  so

  the tired

  but

  ever-determined

  women

  took that

  as a

  challenge

  &

  came together

  to cast

  their

  resurrection

  spell.

  - necromancers.

  i’m a poet

  & i do

  fucking

  know it.

  sit up

  &

  pay

  attention

  as

  i take

  your

  name

  & drag it

  through

  the very

  flames

  you

  built with

  my ruination

  in mind.

  - i won’t repeat myself.

  i have to warn you, my love. the men will try to convince you that we stole the poetry from them. they will light those stubby matches & try to throw them at us once more, but they will miss & they will not be happy. oh no, not. one. bit. “give it back!” they’ll shout at us until their throats start to bleed. they mean give it back to the dead men who thought they were taking the poetry with them to the grave, the same dead men who were so naïve as to think that the words wouldn’t slip from their grip after their skin decomposed & their marrow began to show. the irony? it was our men who demanded we go outside to tend to their sunflowers, never once dreaming of the possibility that we would wander away into their cemeteries.

  - finders keepers.

  unzip

  the skin

  around all

  my edges

  &

  you will find

  the grave-robbed

  bones

  of all

  the women poets

  wronged by

  men

  they

  would

  never dare

  satisfy by dying.

  they

  continue to write

  through my

  hand

  & a woman’s

  wrath

  is nothing

  if not immortal.

  - writing with no light.

  i know

  about

  that voice

  inside

  you.

  yes,

  i know

  all about

  the

  woman

  who’s

  been

  screaming

  her whole

  life

  for

  the chance

  to be

  heard

  by someone.

  take

  this pen

  from me

  & uncage

  her.

  - you owe this to yourself.

  you

  think

  your body

  is made up

  of mostly

  water,

  but

  really

  your body

  is made up

  of mostly

  poetry.

  wherever you go,

  you leave behind

  puddles of

  words

  in your

  wake.

  collect the

  integral pieces

  of yourself

  &

  call the

  words back.

  you deserve

  to be whole again.

  - the sign you’ve been waiting for II.

  we need

  your words.

  we need

  your experiences,

  we need

  your traumas,

  we need

  your anger,

  we need

  your guilt,

  we need

  your passions,

  we need

  the story

  you think no one

  cares to hear.

  we need that

  woman-rage-fire

  only you

  can provide, so

  write.

  write.

  write.

  - the sign you’ve been waiting for III.

  write the poem.

  (write the pain)

  burn the poem.

  (burn the pain)

  - blow the ashes in their eyes.

  poetry

  will be

  the thing

  that

  leads us

  into this

  revolution

  &

  poetry

  will be

  the thing

  that

  leads us

  carefully

  back out.

  - resistance is fine art.

  silence j ilence j iolence j

  violence

  protest j potest j poetst j

  poett j poetr j

  poetry

  two hands

  cupped around

  the earth,

  cracked open

  the middle,

  & poured its

  contents

  into a

  black hole.

  no light—

  only the

  soundless,

  suffocating

  dark

  with no

  escape.

  that

  is the

  only way

  i know how to

  describe

  t h e a g o n y.

  - 1/20/17

  when you

  take it upon

  yourself

  to politicize

  human bodies

  &

  the

  right to

  keep breathing

  without paying

  a steep price

  for it,

  don’t

  pretend

  to be shocked

  when we start

  to take politics

  personally.

  - as you tell us, “deal with it.”

  january 21st, 2017.

  remember the date.

  it was the day when more

  than 3.3 million women

  took the flames

  that have licked at

  their hard&soft skin

  for ce
nturies

  & threw barrels of it

  at the old house

  constructed with packs of

  white matchsticks.

  - the women’s marches.

  in response,

  the match-boys

  locked all the windows

  & all the doors

  to silence us, which only meant

  we had to scream louder.

  oh, how the sky fell&fell

  for days afterward—

  some believe they were

  the tears of the ancestors

  who had to watch but couldn’t

  stop this from happening.

  - the women’s marches II.

  &

  when it

  was all over,

  we gathered

  together

  & raised

  our faces—

  eyes closed—

  towards

  the sky.

  a cry/a plead/

  a thanks

  to the woman

  who fought to

  keep our fire

  alive

  but got

  pushed into

  the pit

  instead.

  thank you

  for believing

  we could be

  more than

  fading embers.

  - for hillary.

  fight tirelessly

  for your sisters

  & don’t forget

  to lend a hand to

  those pushed so far

  into the margin

  of the paper

  they’re d

  a

  n

  g

  l

  i

  n

  g

  off the

  edge.

  - there’s plenty of room for all of us.

  fire

  was

  made

  to

  bring

  down

  walls.

  - he will try to divide us.

  walls

  should

  only

  be built

  to keep out

  flammable

  tyrants.

  - & we will ensure that he fails.

  a

  heavy crown

  spray-painted gold

  will still crack

  when it takes

  the long

  tumble

  d

  o

  w

  n,

  d

  o

  w

  n,

  d

  o

  w

  n.

  - the crooked king.

  there will be nothing

  for them to rule

  if we

  - demolition.

  turn this kingdom

  upside

  down.

  fuck

  the idea of

  staying calm.

  there’s no

  such thing as a

  kind uprising.

  there are

  no “please”s,

  no “thank you”s,

  &

  no justice

  without yelling.

  - patience is a virtue we can’t afford.

  fat

  women,

  old women,

  poor women,

  trans women,

  queer women,

  jewish women,

  women of color,

  muslim women,

  disabled women,

  indigenous women,

  mentally ill women,

  chronically ill women,

  neurodivergent women,

  & all the people in

  all the margins

  of this page.

  together & only together

  shall we finally

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE. RISE.

  RISE.

  - no one will be left in dark, dusty corners.

  point your

  red gold palms

  towards the

  kingdom.

  melt it.

  melt it.

  melt it.

  resurrect

  a queendom

  in its

  place—

  a protected

  sanctuary where

  we can finally

  be equal.

  don’t

  you dare

  wait for

  permission.

  that’s never

  gotten us

  anywhere,

  has it?

  - they had their turn.

  here’s

  the tricky thing

  about fire:

  it stays soft

  even while it

  destroys

  everything

  in its

  path,

  but

  it’s up

  to you

  to

  make sure

  that

  it doesn’t

  burn the

  good

  with

  the rot.

  - we can’t lose our empathy.

  in the

  dark den of the

  witch-queens’

  castle

  we celebrate

  a war won.

  blood orange juices

  dribble down

  our

  chins&necks,

  caught by

  tasting tongues.

  strawberries

  stain

  our fingers

  down to the knuckle,

  cleaned by

  moaning mouths.

  raspberries

  get tangled up

  in our

  braided hair,

  picked out with

  teasing teeth.

  &

  half-nibbled pluots

  plop into

  our laps,

  retrieved by

  first-time fingers.

  - she loved the feast.

  (homage to the poem “Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti)

  don’t let anyone

  make you believe

  it’s not okay

  for you to be angry

  when you’re mistreated

  time & time again,

  but what happens

  the next morning

  when you go to

  the window

  to let the sun

  warm your face

  & you catch a glimpse

  of the way the rays

  reflect off the world

  you intended to fix

  but made

  wreckage of

  instead?

  - we must be better than them.

  when

  this war ends

  at last,

  follow me

  back out

  into

  the

  quiet of the

  day,

  &

/>   with your

  tired palms

  scoop up

  a pile of the

  rubble,

  mourn it as it

  falls through

  your fingers,

  & then

  keep going.

  there’s much work to do.

  - reconstruction.

  queens

  do not need

  to curtsy before

  anyone.

  queens

  do not need

  delicate kisses on

  the back of their hands.

  queens

  do not need

  to apologize before

  making demands.

  queens

  do not need

  to ask for anyone’s

  approval.

  &

  in this castle

  made of

  witch-fire

  we are all

  motherfucking

  queens.

  - & they drank wine & laughed forever & ever.

  as

  a queen,

  you have

  two choices:

  you can

  be malevolent

  & ensure

  our end,

  or

  you can be

  benevolent

  & love

  this world

  back

  to life.

  - a new chapter awaits, witch-queens.

  didn’t

  you know

  there

  could be

  shelves

  upon

  shelves

  upon

  shelves

  of books

  written

  about

  your

  strength?

  - as always, the women save themselves in this one.

  know that anger has its limits

  & act accordingly.

  - coven rule #4

  & silence.

  today

  you are

  the fire

  & tomorrow

  you will be

  the sea

  & they’ll

  have no choice

  but to hear your siren song.

  - amanda lovelace

  until

  next time:

  shine so brightly

  the men think you’re

  guiding them into

  the afterlife.

  - you are invincible.

  special acknowledgments

  I. cyrus parker – thank you for staying patient with me while the writing process of this book tore me apart for months. i’ll never be able to fully express my gratitude for all that you’ve done for me over the years. you truthfully are the better half of me, my poet-husband.
  II. christine day – bambi, my best friend, my writing cheerleader, & my sister-soul mate . . .