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).