You might assume I am just along for the ride
but without my delicate weight her broom
would lose its balance and flap,
willy-nilly, across the sky.
Nights, I sit, idly mousing the kitchen
floor while she combines, in her leaky cauldron,
powders: faery dust, newt’s eye, oil of poppies,
trying to conjure pixies, nixies, naiads.
Often I am bored and bathe myself twice
turn around clockwise and become a fur ball
musing on my literary ancestors: Geoffrey,
white-faced Simony, Pangur Ban—
or commune with my obsidian likenesses
guarding Pharoah’s fathomless tombs.
My tribe is undervalued, our lot plain:
saucer of milk, warm place to sleep
a few small fishes, a door
for going in and out.
Small payment for the way
I ride the foot of her bed
like the prow of a skiff on the Nile
and part, with my copper-backed orbs
the dark curtains of night
making safe the way
for my mistress’s dreams.