Bruja 

I imagine her old 

and dusty, 

although she  

probably wasn't, 

at least not at 

the beginning 

or even in the 

painting somebody 

we know and loved 

hand-stroked 

of her, older 

and knowingly 

seeking 

the youth in my eyes. 

I imagine a broom, 

handmade 

and bottles 

and plants– 

an apothecary 

that knew what 

ails you. 

And there's something 

there in the word 

"bruja," 

A pride I take 

that needs to be 

spit out 

and trampled on, 

because nothing  

good comes 

from witches. 

But what about 

her human heart 

and the tears 

my grandfather 

spilled when she 

was finally 

gone?