I am a Pagan novelist and poet living in South Carolina.  My fiction and poetry have been nominated for seven Pushcarts and appeared in many literary journals, including Miracle Magazine, The Tophat Raven, Boston Poetry Magazine, Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Journal, and Word Riot.  I enjoy creating experimental forms for my prose poems, blurring the line between fiction and poetry. http://www.linkedin.com/in/kittyfeatherpress
 

Foodie


My worst nightmare
comes to life when the
man I can’t allow into
my heart asks me to
dinner and suggests
pizza, knowing it’s my
favorite food, knowing
I can’t resist, but I
should, I should resist,
even though he assures
me this is just a dinner
date and nothing more,
his gentle eyes the blue
of a clear summer sky,
while I visualize a soft
rice flour crust piled
high with black olives,
spinach leaves, green
peppers, mushrooms,
and vegan cheese, while
I wonder if going out
with him just for tonight,
just for pizza, just, just,
just this once might not
be such a bad decision
after all, or is it?





I Have Not Forgotten The Cardinal
outside the art supply store, 
the crimson-feathered 
messenger that sailed past 
me about an hour ago to 
land in a palace of leaves, 
the maple tree next to 
Val, an artist I’d just 
met.  I have not forgotten.  
Cardinals are a sign of 
good fortune.  Witches 
notice these things.  “Left 
or right?” Val asks.  We’re 
back on the sidewalk 
after dinner at my favorite 
raw vegan cafe.  I can still 
taste the white chocolate 
cashew cheesecake we 
ordered for dessert.  I’ll 
dream about that.  I will.  
“My condo is on Senate 
Street,” I say, pointing left 
toward the State House.  
“I’ll walk with you,” he 
says.  “Mine is on Blossom.  
I’m going that way, too.”  
Main Street glistens 
beneath the moist paw of 
another humid evening, 
while the setting sun 
flames as radiant as a ripe 
tangerine, burning a perfect 
hole in the haze of this 
June sky.  “The Adesso?” 
I ask, pulling my backpack 
off my shoulder.  “That’s 
a pretty building.”  I find 
my sunglasses and slip 
them on.  “It is,” he says.  
“Plenty of light and space 
for painting.”  He lifts his 
canvas bag packed with 
art supplies.  A few long 
strands of sun-kissed hair 
fall across his cheek, and 
he flips them behind his 
back.  Like me, he isn’t 
sweating.  Yet.  “How do 
you like living on Senate?” 
he asks.  “It seems like a 
nice area.”  A block from 
the art museum we pass 
rows of caladiums flapping 
ivory leaves as large as 
handkerchiefs, cooling 
the carmine petals of 
geraniums.  “I’m a Green 
Witch,” I say.  “The old 
neighborhoods around the 
university feel like home 
to me.  All those ancient 
trees.  Good energy.”  
Two street musicians 
point at my big pentacle 
necklace.  They play a 
folk song for us, and Val 
drops a twenty in the hat 
at their feet.   “After my 
divorce I moved back 
downtown,” I say.  “First 
to a studio apartment.  
Then this condo at the 
Heritage.”  It’s always 
fun to walk with someone 
wearing cowboy boots.  
Mine are black Ariat.  
His, blue Lucchese.  
Can’t run in them.  Can’t 
even walk fast.  Cowboy 
boots feel so good on 
your feet they force 
you to stroll, to notice 
the rich sienna of the 
brickwork in the median 
or the whisperings of 
the stately palmettos 
lining the street, clicking 
their bladed leaves 
at each other.  Watch.  
Look.  Listen, listen.  
Cowboy boots practice 
Zen.  They do.  We reach 
Senate Street and stop 
at the corner.  “Have you 
ever had chilled spearmint
tea made fresh from the 
garden, sweetened with 
organic honey?” I ask.  
A tropical breeze combs 
the air with the exotic 
scent of gardenias.  They 
bloomed last week.  “No,” 
he says.  “I don’t believe 
I have.”  I offer my hand, 
and he takes it.  “Come 
with me,” I say.  Together 
we turn toward my condo.  
I’m a Witch.  I watch 
for the patterns in life, 
for divine guidance from 
the gods.  I have not 
forgotten that cardinal.  
It was a very good sign. 





More


When he appears at my 
door I’m baking vegan 
muffins for Yule gifts, 
each one flavored with 
herbs from my garden.  
“Come with me,” he says.  
“I have something to 
show you.”  I grab my 
blue jean jacket as he 
snatches the last batch, 
still warm from the oven.  
“Let’s take these, too,” 
he says.  The basket 
of muffins in his hand 
floods the elevator with 
a river of tantalizing 
fragrances.  My stomach 
rumbles.  I skipped lunch.  
“Where are we going?” 
I ask, following him 
through the lobby of my 
condo building to the 
driveway.  Above us 
spangles of ivory clouds 
litter a December sky. 
“You’ll see,” he says, 
turning down Senate 
Street.  We walk one 
block, and then another.  
I’ve always loved the 
houses in this quaint 
college neighborhood.  
Most built at least 
a hundred years ago, 
most beautifully 
restored, every yard 
an exercise in creative 
landscaping.  When 
we reach the third block, 
he stops.  “What am 
I looking at?” I ask, 
standing before an 
antique avant garde  
house, two stories high, 
shaped like a vertical 
shoe box.  Its cement 
and brick exterior, 
painted a pastel shade 
of blue, glows in the 
afternoon sun.  “My 
new home,” he says.  
“I just closed on it.”  
Windows and light 
define every side of 
this house, a necessity 
for an artist, for his art.  
He’ll be happy here.
“I’m not moving in with 
you,” I say.  “Don’t ask 
me again.”  I select a 
peppermint muffin from 
the basket and hand it 
to him.  “I won’t,” he 
says and grins.  A plastic
hummingbird feeder 
dangles from the front 
porch.  Hummingbirds 
remind me of feral cats, 
of commitment-phobic 
men.  Skittish.  I hear 
he used to be like that.  
Not me.  I was married 
for a long time.  Once
is enough.  Now I do 
as I please.  No strings.  
“A toast,” I say, as I 
choose a lemongrass 
muffin and tap mine 
against his.  “To what?” 
he asks.  My teeth sink 
into the moist wheat 
sweetened with fresh 
herbs.  A rich mixture 
of coconut oil, maple 
syrup, and almond milk 
dance across my tongue, 
seducing it with decadent
pleasures.  “To you and 
me,” I say.  “Good food, 
good company.  What 
more could we need?”