Black Cat Dry Bones

Black cat bones

All crushed up in a leather bag

With some of your hair

And flecks of your skin

Thrown in.

A little ginger root

‘The old man of the mountain’

Sage and graveyard dirt

From a freshly dug funeral.

The threads from one of your

Vagrant pieces of clothing

And the dust from one of the pictures

That used to hang in the hallway

That you took on your own accord

Without permission from anyone.

Dead flowers from an overgrown garden

That saw neglect for two years

And the small skeletal frames

Of three green grasshoppers

That found their way to a second floor bedroom

Against all odds.

Bird’s nests empty

Since spring

Boiled in water on the stove

Making a dark tea

Until they fall apart

The twigs, grass, string and garbage

Spread around the footprint of the house.

The tea consumed from porcelain cups

On the first morning of Autumn.

Floors scrubbed three times

In a solution of witch’s piss

Rare herbs and oils

Finished brightly

With linseed oil and turpentine.

Clean, crisp paper money

Burned in an iron cauldron

The flame from which

Is used to light

An exorbitant amount of incense

Which fills the house

With an exotic smell and purity.

This is done daily.

All unneccesary and unsightly items

Are packed and put away

The clutter and chaos retreats.

In my mind you are already gone

Yet I’ll go to severe lengths

To sever the ties that bind.

The mind, body, spirit and home

Are healing.

This exorcising

Is necessary.

The purging

Is imperitive.

To feel complete and at peace.

To experience calm and serenity

Dark arts or not...