What tides surge in your chest, moving you?
You who try to hold all of me in your arms
when I contain the entire moon.
Flayed skin on my hips offer proof of growth,
barely controlled expansion.
You who kiss them in foolishness, stunning entitlement.
Daring to interrupt my ritual,
you claim my suppleness as your own victory.
You have not realized: I am the granddaughter
of all witches who would not burn.
Isabel Mader is now sprouting feathers. She is working on finishing her degree while simultaneously cooking, writing, and petting cats.