Photography by Courtney Brooke
Twenty eight broomcorn bunches in the center,
seventeen on the outside,
jagged bristles bound,
many years ago I would have just swept up Cheerios and glitter,
dirt; brooms were for cleaning.
Now Besom, you’re bound for riding.
Somewhen, I will cut the bottom cord, your bristles
will fan out. I’ll sweep with black salt and thyme,
sage and lavender, sweep away danger
and negativity past the stoop.
You’ll rest on my hearth.
I am broomcorn now, bound and hung
on a long branch, sweeping past agony.
Magic is cycles. History is cycles.
I will tell you all the stories I know.
Athame
from the Latin word artavus, a small knife used to sharpen the pens of scribes
My athame does not cut sinew from bone,
does not trace delicate veins—no
it is part fire part air
black handle and solid blade.
Evoke the directions, cast the circle,
let the sage waft.
Blade to forehead, bow, touch the chalice, bring union.
Bind the spell, let the circle unwind, worry the blade in its sheath,
sing magic.
