When she talks to plants, cottonwoods to succulents,
their fibrous stereocilia relax. She is known for giving
gifts of water and offering words of affirmation; love languages which
form green. She has read my fortune. I sat cross-legged on her floor,
the crystals cast between her chemistry notes, as she divined meaning:
communing. I do not believe in higher power;
she is magic. Perhaps this is what being agnostic means.
When you flip a quarter there is a chance
that upon landing its grooved edges will occupy the space
between heads and tails – perpendicular to the earth it lands on.
Coin still cast, tumbling between its sides,
I am flip with G-d/god.
The mule deer lie in her lap as she builds a nest, gathering broom strands,
twigs, her quilt of forget fabrics. Citrine talisman
her back pocket, says she’ll take down big pharma
one day. The coven centennial approaches and the iron-jawed moon waxes,
big in the Albuquerque sky.