Coven

Prose

We chant around the grill in our backyard every Friday the 13th to scare the neighbors who told the Homeowners’ Association our violet paint job was garish. We powder newt tongue and kitten whiskers into hangover smoothies. We concoct lipstick out of rose petals and rattlesnake blood. We whisper made-up spells when telemarketers call until they, unnerved, hang up. We zap our router in frustration when the Wi-Fi goes out until it collapses into ash. We zip catcallers’ lips shut. We push fraternity brothers off bus seats with our minds til they sprawl in the aisle. We steal male colleagues’ best ideas from their stress-dreams. We send packages to the news station with dirty lingerie and sex tapes featuring town councilmen who say thirteen women living in a house together must be operating a brothel. We shrink unfaithful lovers’ penises. We stick needles into poppets dressed with our mothers’ grayest hairs to silence their daily nagging calls. We steal our high school rivals’ babies from their cribs and draw bulls-eyes on their dimpled bellies with Magic Marker before returning them unharmed. We laugh over blood orange mimosas. We go on Sunday drives in our gold hearse. We hold hands around the table in the snootiest farm-to-table restaurant in town while other patrons glare at us. We hum spells until their wine glasses shatter. We leave a $666 tip for the waitress as an apology. We trip over to the nearest dive bar with sticky floors. We win every game of pool and darts. We leave men floating helplessly in the air if they try to cop a feel. We return to the backyard and chant, as t-bone steaks and marinated tofu sizzle on the grill. We hope the neighbors are watching.