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Sarah Ann Winn

The Kitchen Witch at Imbolc

I brush the heel of my hand

with salt. The ring in the sky

where someone set a coffee mug,

dried in a ghost crescent. With toothpaste,

I unmarked the sky, I didn’t coast.

The cure, the heat, my own doing, undoing,

I made a bed for Brigid.

I left my clothes on the floor,

my favorite shirt, Let the buttons hold

fast. Spring cleaning - check

does the dust fall in constellated ways?

I brush the heel of my hand,

the cure, the heat my own doing, undoing.

I wear my best cardigan when I carry her out

to check for snow, for housekeeping

matters, if you make it.

Dress Form, Large

The alternative was to use a dummy,

mute and bulky, add the pad,

graft — with a laugh — a covering, to assay

the place where the button gaps,

a flat refusal to lay passive, weight

means art refuses to attend.

At the cocktail party for plus sizes,

the waiters roll their eyes when asked

for water. We wave to be seen, to have all

the options open, to be refilled, all we need

is the check. We are designed to catch

your eye. One has to work to look away

from the multitudes of our measure.