No, I will not yield my darksome
teeth into the candlewick hours. We burn
the whole yard in our living

room, while desiccation skitters through
the front door. Rowan. Holly. Hawthorn.
A coven bleeds into the sky.

We curse. Your smiles
are tilt on the knife. The wind
thrashes our sills and cold crawls

through our zippered intentions.
Blessed be, the dark miasma of these months.
When we remember

our deep drawers. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Clove.
That hope must be stirred
with a spoon.