In the Witch Shop

I was a Buddhist then, and never asked
for anything. I chanted each day, Desires
are inexhaustible, I vow to put an end
to them and I wanted to be pregnant
with a fierceness beyond reason.
Enough to stop T and let my body go alien,
enough to let countless ultrasound wands
into a hole I had no word for, enough
to let doctors pump radioactive fluid
into my womb while I writhed in pain.
My Zen teacher had told me to meditate
on the phrase The Great Way is not difficult
for those who have no preferences.
My longing made me feel unclean.
Shame prickled the back of my neck
when I entered a witch shop and said,
“I want a fertility candle, but
I’m trans, so maybe not a goddess one?”
The young man behind the counter wore
a shirt that said, Don’t be a basic witch.
He smiled and offered a choice:
a male god, like fire melting the snow,
or the great mother of the sea, a blue candle
that smelled like a long-forgotten lullaby.
He said, “Take the one that calls you.”
I was afraid. Maybe candle magic was for fools,
like those folk tale peasants who squander
their three wishes and end up worse than they started.
As a child, I only asked Santa for world peace.
But the ocean mother’s scent was like
the imprint of a hug through lifetimes.
I reached for her. He said, The great mother
holds everyone, no matter who you are,
she whispers, what do you want, baby,
what do you want?
I didn’t know you could say what you wanted
or have anyone to hold you and listen.