The Witch Urchins: A Poem by Avra Margariti
The Witch Urchins
They weave runes and rites of rainbowed graffiti
With stolen spray paint
(Gold, scarlet, cerulean, purple)
Armored in fingerless gloves and fishnets.
Each tag, a unique magical imprint.
If sirens blare upstreet,
An extra curlicue added to the last letter
Of the third word--a mantle of invisibility.
They squat in abandoned swimming pools,
Nocturnal streetlights an indigo
Shadow play upon baby blue tiles.
They sleep under their own galaxy,
Stars of blooming mold, ceiling-crack constellations.
Specters of past dwellers dance overhead:
Children who remained lost
Or grew up to be found.
They protest outside government buildings,
Busk on busy street corners
The music like that of landbound sirens.
Some passersby toss coins,
Others cry silently in the faceless crowd,
Relieved to not be so alone.
Those with darkness rooted in their hearts
Scramble away as fast as they can
But even up skyscraper offices
Or down subway stairs and platforms,
Their palpitating eardrums bleed
With the reverb of guilt, heritage of
Parents and guardians who throw out
The kids they deem too broken, too different.
In stained sleeping bags
The witch urchins huddle for warmth.
Sometimes they touch one another
(Yes, like this/no, not there today.
Please, dear alchemist, help me transmute
My dysphoria into exultation.)
Their breathy sighs a layered spell
Of protection and devotion
Directed at their self, their coven, the whole
Wounded world.
Avra Margariti is a queer author and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov's, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Love Letters to Poe, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. Avra lives and studies in Athens, Greece. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).
