Playing with Fire

It took me this long to realize
I was in love with the eighth grade
witch. She whispered peppermint
secrets like how to snap
a person’s neck simply
by severing a stolen thread
of hair. You see
I liked the way everything looked
dangerous,
the way she always wore
black, tightening
around her woman
breasts. She studied fuchsia
lipstick, books
on voodoo.
An intricately folded little letter she sent
me, explaining things—
how hickeys are a form
of vampires sucking blood—
and laughed out loud when I couldn’t
put it together again. When
the teacher grabbed it, she grabbed
it back, flashed
her lighter, said watch this
burn.
I just scratched the inside
of my blue desk down
to the metal
where I could see myself
winking back at her.

Angie Hogan