Chapbook — Anorexia Witch

A few ages ago I started a series of poems titled Anorexia Witch. After I “completed” the series I put them aside, and it has been within the past year or so that I have started working with the poems again. I wanted to have a chapbook together last year, but it wasn’t meant to be– even though my cover work is beautiful and complete.

Anyway, here’s the first poem of the series:

Anorexia Witch 1

You enter wearing your black hat,
tip pointing to the sky,
never moves as you walk
or glide—always perfection.
Must be some talent.
You carry your cauldron,
handle over your wrist,
draped like curtain over a rod.
Your brew bubbles,
the air wafting
a delicious smell to my nostrils—
stirs a hunger in me,
well, almost.

You are rail thin,
your dress specially crafted
for a petite body.
I lust when I see the straps
of your heels criss-crossing
over your sharp ankles.

Bewitching. Intriguing. Bewitching.
I want you to bewitch me.

Let me have a taste
of what you carry.
Let me sip your perfection.
Whispering. Cackling. Whispering.
What is this spell you’re casting?
Have I heard your words before?
Be a witch like the world
has never seen, one of pure
bodily perfection.

Before you call to your broom,
I request,
Cast your spell on me.

Anorexia Witch

I am almost finished with revisions of my Anorexia Witch series. When I started my revisions I thought by this time I would have a chapbook in hand; however, that is not the case since I found myself distracted by life. I don’t feel too bad about my slacking since a friend of mine is still working on finishing the cover art. Once I’m finished with the poems I’ll ask Dr. G to review them as her opinion means the world to me.

Here’s the first poem in the series:

Anorexia Witch 1

You enter the room wearing your black hat,
tip pointing to the sky.
It never moves as you walk
or glide—always perfection.
You carry your cauldron,
handle over your wrist
draped like curtain over rod.
Your bubbling brew wafts
a delicious smell to my nostrils—
stirs a hunger in me,
well, almost.

You are rail thin,
your dress specially made
for a petite body.
I lust when I see the straps
of your heels criss-crossing
over your ankles.
Bewitching. Intriguing. Bewitching.

I want you to bewitch me.
Let me sip your brew,
taste your perfection.

Whispering. Cackling. Whispering.
What is this spell you’re casting?
Have I heard your words before?
Be who you are meant to be,
a witch of pure bodily perfection
ready to cast spells into the world.

Before you call to your broom,
I ask again,
cast your spell on me.