Poem of the Week: The Witch’s Bargain

She didn’t want your name. She wanted the heat 
in your chest, the one that burns when you lie to 
your wife about where you were and why your 
hands are shaking.

Meet her at the crossroads where the road to the 
church meets the road to the cemetery. 
Don’t bring flowers. 
Bring the debt you’re hiding in your pocket.

She’s older than the dirt, you know this. Her skin
is the color of wet ash, her eyes are the green 
of pond water where things go to die.

She’ll ask for a kiss. Don’t pull away. Let her taste 
the whiskey and the guilt. Let her feel your heart 
hammering like a trapped bird.

In exchange, she’ll take the memory of the child 
you left behind in that field last August. You won’t dream 
of him anymore. You won’t wake up 
screaming his name into the dark.

But you’ll always be cold. A deep, bone-deep chill 
that no fire can touch. You’ll sit by your husband’s side 
and smile at his jokes and wonder why 
your teeth chatter in the summer heat.

She’ll whisper, 'It is done.' And you’ll walk home 
through the silent street, leaving your soul in the dirt 
between the graves, lighter than a feather, 
empty as a bell.

Don’t look back. If you look back, she’ll be standing 
there, smiling with too many teeth, 
waiting for the next payment.