Candy corn offerings for the rats 
and other signs I was born a witch.

Turn out the lights like a bell
over a candle-- closed eyes--criss-cross-- 
cardboard box yourself into 
the witch's den--legs on attic carpet.
I'll telephone our dead grandmothers 
and ask them how they found their paths 
to our tea lights--
I was a creature of October anticipation
and believing in ghosts more
than wind-- a child summon from
a spiral of dry oak leaves--  
Look into the mirror and tell me
that you see yourself before you 
fade into the face of another spirit
in the dark of a bathroom-- who doesn't 
want to be scared of candles or
demons? Keep holy water by the bed.
Train your lips to speak the
OUR FATHER when you breath-- mouth full
of dry spider webs-- chewing on 
murky-- rain-haze dreams
-- No holy water could banish what 
we think about before we fall asleep
-- I count my ribs like
spider webs and think about stop lights
and air bags and the smell of hospital 
hallways. I wiped mushy leaves off
my forehead, born into the shivering
acorn heart of late September--
my family believed in Halloween--in 
the statues of rubber rats we worshiped--
offered up our candy corn 
penances for their feasting at midnight--
MIDNIGHT the witching hour when
rats thrash their pink tails--roll 
their white eyes in the collective
bone-breathing of a house dead and alive;
Collecting eye balls in the corners so that
we're always watched-- always at least
gossiped about by the jack-o-lanterns--
Swing slowly the silhouette of the man
who never hung himself in our stairwell--
Foot steps of my grandfather who ate
peanuts and threw the shells on the porch
to crunch like bones or maple leaves--
Raspy-whispering under the kitchen sink
-- spine-trickled down to the 
cracked basement floor--
My brother and I wrap ourselves
in black cloaks-- lay on attic floor--
my brother is scared.
We're vampires and we don;t know it yet.
He asks "Are there ghosts?" and
tells me "Don't leave me alone."
I laugh and tell him that our house
is a ghost but that I would always haunt him
if he wanted me to.
We made candy corn fangs with them 
still in our mouths--
fell asleep before our grandmothers 
could answer us. They each ate a handful
of candy corn before the rats came
to claim their offering.
Our tea lights burned all night--
and still swung the ghosts of 
our own changed faces we'd tried
to carve out of the bathroom mirror. 
"Don't leave me alone," I repeated.
"Don't leave me alone."