Ephemeris

A faded galaxy of planets
or tight constellation of stars,
the pale birthmark
on your neck casts spells.

I am not one for ceremony,
but this nebula rises above me,
and pulls prayer
from my mouth like jewels,
or teeth.

That Long, Vacant Room

She was a raven
from an old man's story,
but I saw a witch
with heavy pendants in her ears
and a box full of beads
and tarnished charms.

She sat down on the ground near me
and her knees interrupted her,
confessed her transgressions.
She brought strange dreams
or visions
like frosted bundles of sage.

I didn't ask,
but she said
love isn't always possible.

With both hands,
she slipped
into that old man's mouth,
made up a bed
in that long, vacant room
and rested her head
there, on his teeth,
and pulled his words
up, out of his throat
in her dreams.

Amy L. Fair, a West Virginia native, makes her home in rural Oregon, where she teaches at a small community college and plans to grow old without any grace whatsoever.