The Saint is a Witch, the Witch Confesses

Amelia Gorman

A group of boars is called
a sounder same as this herd of whispers
that put me in this limbo saying
there's too little room inside the canon
right now

numberless black birds circle
infinity through these bars

no more intrusions from
the strain of heavenly voices
now just
the refrain of a gray pigeon

A group of witches is called
mentally ill, depressed,

Amid injections, electro, and
an inoffensive vomit of paint, red chested birds
none of which are named literature
I can't remember

(remember doggerel,
the name of a circle of crows,
which animal grouping is called a conspiracy)

what seeped out through a hole
between my eyes

while the city ripped my pants to shreds
to sew into a skirt, a bandage, a jacket,

led me away to a red chested timber
that isn't burning poetry

Amelia Gorman is a recent transplant to Eureka, California. She enjoys exploring the redwoods and coasts with her dogs and foster dogs. Some of her recent poetry has appeared in Penumbric, Vastarien, and The Deadlands. Her first chapbook, Field Guide to Invasive Species of Minnesota is available from Interstellar Flight Press.