The Writingsof Witch Baby

The Spaces Between The Trees

 I love the trees
 but also
 the spaces between the trees.
 The grassy expanse
 (greening now, near spring)
 where there is room to think;
 where there are spaces around the thoughts
 so they can put down roots
 and branch off from there.
 Good children aren't afraid to go
 far from home. A good home
 is easiest to leave. In San Francisco
 I understood more about New York
 than I do in Brooklyn.

 From the plane the ground was a map,
 a diagram, a diorama with matchbox cars. 
 The man behind me pointed to the green squares
 and said, "Oh yeah, that's North Dakota,"
 before retiring behind his New York Times.
 On the way back 
 we flew through a greedy, brilliant
 flaming vermillion sunset
 with dripping pinks and dusky blues
 and most everyone was sleeping
 or watching the in-house film.

 I guess we get sick
 of what we see every week.
 These crooked window blinds.
 My knuckled hands. It's a secret 
 but that's mostly why I came home:
 I wanted to learn how to look.
 It's easy enough to see something
 you've never seen before. 

 But don't listen to me.
 This isn't at all what I mean.
 The spaces between the trees 
 have their own silences,
 their own meanings that don't warrant words.
 Even this poem
 is only an approximation.

Jessica (witchbaby), 2001

i love you guys... keep writing, all. one cannot write in a vacuum. your encouragement and ideas help keep me going. we are a community, people. feel love now. Jessica

Faith

           
  Danny only talks about God
  when drunk, and then only when pressed.
  He pretends he never told me
  about that night in the tub, lifting
  his right arm from the water, droplets
  glistening on his skin, holding the blade
  in his left hand...       
     
  We'd discussed it. Across was best,
  not up-and-down, too difficult
  to stitch back up. Or one could cut
  just to see the blood run, a reminder we were alive
  when we felt so numb we couldn't tell.
  No reason to worry, those scars
  that weren't there on Tuesday. Nothing dire.       
        
  I could write this poem about autumn, 
  leaves on fire, yellow ochre, reddish copper, 
  all raked together on the lawn. 
  I never envision my mother with grey hair
  when we talk, long distance, apart. 
  I knew there would have to be change
  but I never knew just how much
  or that it would always feel sudden.       
           
  He put the razor down. Sometimes
  I think that's what it means
  to be religious. We are Jews
  who sit in the back row when we go
  to shul, if we go to shul
  at all. They don't greet us there.
  All of the music I love
  touches on Jesus.    
        
  We don't talk about this. We pretend
  we don't know what it means
  to believe, and that we don't believe. 
                    
 --Jessica witchbaby, 1999

Your Little Civil War

 (for my mom)

 The doctors know it all. They have machines.
 They speak a language we don't understand.
 The doctor is not calm so much as bland
 As he explains. For him this is routine.
 He talks about your cells, in metaphor:
 The good ones, and the bad ones we must kill.
 He doesn't mention pain, or being ill.
 He says it's like a little Civil War.
 He says that all the solidiers must be called
 For peace is only reached through strong defense;
 We have no time for childish innocence.

 You're already exhausted, sick, and bald.
 He speaks of you as though you're not around.
 Your body is the soldier's trampled ground.

 --Jessica witchbaby, 2000

Jessica"Faith" is really good...I especially love the first paragraph. I don't know something about it just sort of hits you or something. I've got some (some? hah. understatement) tons of newer poetry that I could show you, if you wanted to do a poetry trade or something. I wrote exactly 31 poems in Minnesota. So get in touch with me, girl. ~Jasmine roo at hoosierlink.net

And the next one I completely love. It's absolutely wonderful. I love the very stark, straight forward feel of it. Very black and white, like you are actually longing for the grey elements that died long ago. A semi rhyming pattern that shows up and then leaves again fleetingly, also good.

~jasmine

• "semi-rhyming pattern?!" this is a standard sonnet, chickie bean! ABBA, CDDC, EFFE, GG. but thanks for your comments, jasmine: they're encouraging and also make me feel like someone actually reads what i put up here! witchbaby
• I read this page whenever it's updated. I hope you put more of your writings up here,though I think they are more powerful when they are read aloud. When you read the first poem aloud at camp, I cried like a fucking baby. Yeah.. ~Eire