I thought my magick had disappeared—
that I had let an unworthy thief pilfer it in her bag of skulls
(a collection of women she wished she could become). 

Freyja came again after the ravens followed me
for weeks, as I wandered hollow through the night.
Cats kept watch as I accepted emptiness.

I noticed daisies sprouting outside the morning she appeared;
she was an old friend who cradled me in the early light,
whispered that enchantments and charms cannot be taken

by charlatans with no skill—who have never held
any sort of power in their palms. Her fingers poked
into my spine as she reminded me I was a warrior.

I could not resist the goddess of desire in my bed—
she poured my witchery back into me, fed me amber
and rubies—let her golden hair melt with mine.

She is Spring

She reminds me that gardens
still grow inside me. She sees
the black peonies I planted
for you—says you still have
the magic to make things bloom.

She understands how sleeping alone,
counting down the days until she can
be next to Her him—can make my head
swim with longing and there is no
swallowing that type of sorrow.

She knows what it’s like to love
a man shrouded in darkness—
one who fears he will consume
the light. But she can burn,
hold onto the days, and stars
—so that even the Underworld
is illuminated in her presence.

We are incandescent, do not fear the gloaming
or shadow. We glow when you can’t see beyond
the raging storms, eclipses, and moonless nights.


Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic.

Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write.

You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.