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"I am no more witch than you are; and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink." —Sarah Good, July 19, 1692, before her execution during the Salem witch trials


I tell myself it's an accident, hurting this man, making him bleed. The Impala is hot; I’m sixteen. It’s 1989, and drive-ins have wired speakers encased in cast-metal boxes tethered to poles sunk six inches deep, spaced at intervals wide enough to fit a family car.

late summer hits

We hook the heavy speakers inside the lip of each rolled-up window. It’s barely intermission before they fog up—I’m pushing off my date, yelling stop. We haven’t even gotten popcorn yet. He pulls me toward him, I yank back—each lurch of Impala brings loud thuds of protest from the speakers pressed against its glass. Then a sharp crack—windows shatter, spraying piles of safety-grade diamonds into our laps. That **** goes everywhere.

starlings screech in surround sound 

Cold night air rushes in with the collapse of glass. I smell the salt and tang of heat-lamp nachos, remember I’m hungry. He sits gravestone still, calls it an omen. I laugh out loud. Look at the mess you made, I say, running my hands through the shards, fingers reflecting like stars in the light of the big screen. What will I tell my parents is all I can think.

murmur south for food

He turns his big eyes to mine and calls me a witch. As if yelling stop, stop is the problem, a spell that conjures small gods to break windows—throw hell-bending elbows as hard and unforgiving as his wedding band glinting in the dirty cup holder. 

fall is beginning

He drops me at Taco Bell, six blocks from my house. I shed a trail of fractured glass the whole walk home, tell myself they're white sapphires when they crunch under my soles, already rehearsing my side of the story. 

feathers green now gilt with gold

The next morning, I wash the rest of the night from my hair. We both tell different versions of what happened, cut different details, people, in and out of it.

invasive species
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