flying witch

for Chihiro Ishizuka

Stirring stick in thickening mud, adding dandelion

heads, those humming suns, folding in lavender

buds, we left the hose running into the grass as we

poured ourselves into this enchantment. With stick

snap, we stuck ends making horns in the ground. Among

the slopping sound, you squatted around the yard, plucking

acorns, thumbing them into our spell. “Eyeballs”, you said

as the earth swallowed each one, sucking your thumb. Covered

in mud, you raise your hand to my face. “Poop”, you said,

and I fell back, wheezing, tearing. What if we were apprentices

with guidance for our magic? I wonder if there’s a word

we’re still avoiding to complete that spell. I know “sorry”, for one,

is yours. We should have turned the hose off. At least

then the grass wouldn’t have yellowed and died.

Seán Griffin received an MFA in Creative Writing from Manhattanville College. Seán's writing has appeared in The Southampton Review, Selcouth Station Press, Impossible Archetype, Dust Poetry Magazine, Sonic Boom, and Cathexis Northwest Press, with poetry in The Mud Season Review, Mineral Lit Magazine, and The Hellebore forthcoming. Seán teaches writing at Concordia College of New York, is an editor for Inkwell Literary Journal, and lives in New York with three dogs.