Rat tails, bat wings, what spells the witches bring?
Hear the cauldron sing a silent serenade.
As brew does bubble, hence forth trouble, making air a misty glade.
Come forth, the curious and eager.
Make your life that much meager.
A haze inhaled shall cause you hell, your life in hands of witches' spell.
Dead eyes, black like a shark belonging to women lined up all in a row.
They stare off as if homesick, tired of this land, this world.
Above sea is no place for them.
They have not scales, nor fins to be seen.
They are women yet different, women yet strange;
all in a row like sardines, unhappy on land yet happy at sea.
They would almost suffocate if I turned away.
I'm sure this much is true.
They would almost cease existence if not for observance.
I'm sure this much is also true.
Rickey Rivers Jr. was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Picaroon Poetry, Back Patio Press, Marias at Sampaguitas, Crepe & Penn (among other publications). Find him on Twitter: @storiesyoumight, or on his website: https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/ His third mini collection of 3x3 poems is available now: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VDH6XG5