Diane Massam

Old Witch Glosa


I can hear the little clicks inside my dream.
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4 a.m. I wake. Thinking

Anne Carson 'The Glass Essay'

Anxiety grows like a beanstalk
in a world with no young Jacks.
The sky opens up to receive it,
the clouds move aside to reveal it.
It sucks the goodness right out of the soil. But--
it's my familiar, my private theme, it feels like old pyjamas.
Anxiety grows like a thousand sprouts
in a weekly farmer's basket.
It blooms at night as the demons scheme.
I can hear little clicks inside my dream.

Did I lock the door, did I
turn off the stove, did I
feed the cats, did I
howl at the moon three times
to keep the ogres out?
Oh! Did I set the goblin trap?
What if the tall Catalpa falls, or
what if the bathtub overflows? Or
what if my old witch bones just snap, as
night drips its silver tap.

I lie in the dark and I chase myself
through cellar walls, I swing around
on the ivy that grows
up over pointy gables.
Ice forms in blood, positioning edges
bearing down for a better attack.
It disembodies itself
as it sweeps its broom.
It finds my manic track. Right
down the back.

I'm calmer now,
my pillow is fluffed,
finally drifting to sleep.
All spells are cast,
I've pleased the cats,
I can tell by the way they're blinking.
All is still. But the demons know
how to do it. They wait patiently. They hover.
From the ceiling water drips. I'm shrinking!
At 4 a.m. I wake. Thinking




Bio

Diane Massam writes about aging, anxiety, and the entanglement of nature and mind. With recent publications in Arc Poetry Magazine, The New Quarterly, and Queens Quarterly, she won the Federation of BC Writers Poetry competition (2021), and was shortlisted for the 2024 Kingfisher Prize (Pulp Literature). She is also a professor emeritus of linguistics at the University of Toronto. She lives in her hometown, Victoria, where she spends as much time as possible in gardens or forests or on the beach. She has a soft spot for witches. (IG @massampoetry)

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