Mother Moon

November is for the mystics,

moon swollen and bright, smiling

at those who worship her, who

sit in circles of crystals and flames,

whispering incantations, spewing

intention at her face like a child's

vomit, like my sister after eating

too much, my mother whispering statistics

and avoiding the word “bulimia” even as

I sat in front of her, small portions left

untouched while I pinched at my fat

under the table and agreed that it was

alarming how thin her other daughter

had gotten. I resolved to consecrate

my stolen steak knife with blood

from my wrists and lay it on my

altar, summon its blade and slice

the curves right off of my frame

until my stomach reset to waning

and never became full again, until

she noticed the food I washed down

the drain, that I scraped around my plate

and into the big black hex bag filled

with trash, until she could look at me

and my pointy hat while I clutched

a leather-bound book of spells, desperately

waving my wooden wand she had carved

the wrong initials into, stomping my feet

every time it sparked or backfired, chanting

to myself that blood made the magic stronger.