The Witch

The wind off the Gulf
Convulses the palms,
Shatters the gardens.

In bed the lady
Dreams: a coffin
Floats down the air

Straight to her eyes,
Which penetrate
The lid nailed shut.

She wakes; the name
Slips like an ash
From her lips. She packs

For another funeral.
Frail and ordinary
She rides the bus.

The family gathers;
They know her dreams.
None greets her, all

Refuse her claim
As blood and kin,
Her right to mourn.

She prays for this dead,
And she would pray
To die herself,

But for her dream
Of her blood transferred,
Throbbing in the stringy

Veins of the ragged
Owl who perches
On barn or house

Foretelling death
Upon death, clutched
By an unremitting force.