by ellen huang

I didn't do it when the new years rang in
         I didn't do it to make way for my initiation

         and I didn't do it for no valentines nor lent.

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Have you ever seen a clutter-free witch?
         A wizard without a mountain of books?
         A sorcerer without a smattering of props?

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But I supposed it was time to be better
         at keeping sorcery secrets, to curate
         what it means to be an open book. So I sulked

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and glared in the stairway at the broom and dustpan.

        Then stood and glared, compelling them
        until they swept the room for me.

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Next, the dishes got to washing.
        the soap to bubbling, the soup to boiling, the tea to pouring.                  Then off I was to get the books to shrinking

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But I can stop

                                whenever I want.

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You see, no one wants it too clean, lest you forget

        useful lizard toes to preserve, or broken

        seashells for sea witchcraft.
        (I promise there's a system.)
 

I was skipping my way down
        when the taxidermized stuffed animals

        quickly passed the gift of life.

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And before I knew it
        the bubbles ambushed the room
        and the hot water spilled over and
        the books began laughing in high voices.

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The shoes were romping and the broom
        put up a fight, and the jackets were choking

        and the dish ran away with the spoon.

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And now I've a mess worse than I've begun with,

        from my own magic, and I'm wondering
        if mice and birds can offer better service.

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But I take the chaos, perhaps even preferred it,
                      for fear of what this ominous, legendary

                                                                imaginary "clean" looks like.

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