I think you are a witch
you know the secrets of things
that grow in the earth

you spend hours each day
in your garden plot among
the garlic and the turnip greens

in your kitchen are books
of spells and incantations
on your stove a cauldron

gurgling on the back burner
bright green things simmering
just below the surface

you call it the soup I can’t
help myself as I help myself
and soon thereafter I sleep

we have been together
for over fifty years you still
look good enough to eat

we dance in the kitchen
your head fits snugly
beneath my chin

this is not a love poem
I think I am bewitched –
must be something I ate