MY WITCH AND WARLOCK

My witch and her warlock came to Manhattan yesterday.

I’m staying in rented quarters downtown, an apartment

spacious and well-appointed but darkened black as night.

It faces concrete walls and windows, sky nowhere in sight.

Lululemon leggings and lattes dominate these neighboring suites.

Who can stand out of convention and sameness on this street?

A witch and warlock, bringing light and sky-opening evanescence

to the busy, hurried, Wall Street, striking in their stark difference.

My witch’s name is Angel. She is a world-renowned spiritual healer,

ministering to diplomats, celebrities, peacemakers, global leaders.

So, why would Angel visit me, a former Lulu-legged Wall Streeter?

Honoring a favor to our friend, she vowed to help my suffering end.

She sees from above and beyond this earthly existence. Hope is

committed to her calling, the rationale for this human subsistence.

Honoring a life of service, Angel leaves her modest home, compelled

to purge what no longer serves, sings, prays, and, yes, breaks spells.

You can’t miss the warlock guiding my witch, two beings who today

float around the corner, passing consumers of Lulu-leggings and lattes.

The warlock is a moving mirage of colors so bright, he seems to ignite

that dark street with pink sunglasses, orange coat, high-tops in white.

Angel is ethereal in her flowing robes, bejeweled scarves glowing

in the downtown darkness. Her white shoes point right at me.

She has come here to anoint, conjoin in healing, prayer, and song,

mixing essential oils bottled from water at Egypt’s Valley of Kings.

Once inside my rented darkness, Angel grabs the warlock’s hands.

Together they begin chanting, recanting, praising Jesus in Spanish.

The warlock’s real name is Marty Levine and his parents know mine.

A fellow Jew from Miami Beach, he left in one dramatic bait/switch.

Angel is a vessel of God. Which God, whose God? Whether I believe in

a God or their Spanish Jesus and Egyptian water oil is irrelevant. Because

in this moment, Angel and warlock transcend, eyes roll back in their head.

We all huddle, sway, cry, dwelling in between, and saving me from dead.

And then, with a final anoint of oil, it’s over. Somehow the witch and her

warlock know their journey to the formerly dark downtown street has

met its natural, divinely guided stop. So, we head to the hip coffee shop.

Angel orders a latte; in line, I see her engage a Lulu-Legger, chatting away.

No special newts or brews. There’s Angel in her pointy, white shoes while

the warlock orders a croissant, both clearly at home in this world or that,

because, it seems, witches and warlocks are not that far apart from a prior

darkened downtown street, lattes, leggings, or even the just-ordained me.

Let there be light.