Skylaar Amann

The Day Witch

is an amateur with an anger problem. She hexes executives and bans bosses from her boundary. She draws symbols in the sand, outlines the office with a ring of ashes, wishes and wishes till exhaustion takes her. She curses the day certain people were born, bears ill-will like a hairstyle. Everything she touches a talisman. Another charm, another day on the calendar. Haggard and wrecked, she wreaks havoc.

The day witch burns bridges. She is sick of the bitches. Hands twitch lines in the air: she casts spells, sends hexes to the next door neighbors, ensorcels colleagues from cubicles, and harbors general resentments. She conjures trouble for beleaguered fools who fall for it fully.

The day witch stitches voodoo dolls from rags to riches of misery. Minute by minute, she makes minute changes, challenging her own better judgment. Patched heart, torn eye, stuffing on the floor. You’re nothing but a burlap bag to her. One pin goes in — then the rest.

The day witch reaches her limit. Wretched and wanted, she’s hoping for something that doesn’t come. All her magic is tragic, misguided, and sad. She doesn’t want to hurt them. She doesn’t even hate them. She just wants to work less, turn worthless to purpose. Settle by a sea somewhere where she’ll comb sand from her hair, watch the ships sail by, and record harmless incantations in a commonplace book.

SKYLAAR AMANN is a poet and artist living in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has been published in Cirque, Prime Number, Belletrist Coterie, and elsewhere. She is a 2012 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship finalist. She is online at

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