Bloodletting

On black nights we drive southwest
an hour-fifty on I-80, find the pockets
of wild pocked enough to see the stars.

This is the land that milked us safe
passage in its breast—the womb of sky above
holds my grandmother. She is Libra

scaling out the hours & she is barn owl
too. Tonight she looks like a tree.
The morning will paint her pine needle

comfort on my feet. November snow
burns her face to moon, more ritual
than sage. I drain a deer to stain her lips,

leave the carcass wet on the floor.
I hear talk of green witches. There is
no such thing. Every witch is red.

HARLEY ANASTASIA CHAPMAN is an artist & writer based in Chicago. She earned an MFA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago & a BA in English with a focus on women & gender studies from Illinois State University. Her work can be found in Euphemism, Not Very Quiet, Storyscape Journal, Soundings East, & Columbia Poetry Review.

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