This is not a test. I am broadcasting to you from the garden. Witch bones are in my teeth. I am a third generation scattering. My brother is the successful one. My sisters might not know my name. I have my father’s features and some of my mother’s worst habits. She said I used to be the good one. My brother is missing, I think.
A witch, neon and nude, reminds me of what granddaddies say about big legs and weak eyes, blinds me— brown gone grey gone for good. Goddamn. In flattering light, I am budding gibberish, sacred and mosaicked, a pearl held in singing digits: belly of windchimes, kindling. This scarecrow wingspan catches accidental flight. I am coming into knowing the ironies of elevation. They are all yours.
Brian Francis is a Cave Canem fellow from New York City. He graduated from the University of Pittsburgh with a degree in Creative Nonfiction and has an MFA in Poetry from NYU.