Born To A Witch Poem by Michael Ashby

Your mother always worried
that you would die
in some tragic way.
That the universe waited
for you
to slip up and make a mistake.

In her eyes your soul
wasn't safe yet.
You hadn't changed at all
since the day you were
birthed accidentally onto the floor.
Cursed from birth they'll say.

You wore born on a comfort,
a day of assurance.
A day that reaffirmed her fears,
but you never bat an eye
when you feel the breath
of the world on your neck.

Make light hearts.
Make small talks.
Make love or don't
try.
Make light of our situation.

Your father always spoke well
of you when he
wasn't tearing apart your skin.
But you still love your family?
You can see their beauty
even others beauty through those eyes?

Make beautiful things.
Make stars and children.
Make love or
die.

Are we beautiful?
Is it a question I can ask
a stranger?
or a lover?
Am I a canvas made of torn skins
stretched over my
marrows to be painted on
or were all of these curses
and trials in vein?

Trading the culmination of intellectual
growth at tables and chairs
over coffee, I learn.
I learn facts and figures that
resulted from fireworks
that spread across our skies at a
very young age.

Are we beautiful?
I think you are.
I look at our skies and suddenly I know
all your origins, facts, figures, and you
know mine.

I'm cursed and you
you are beautiful.