Matricaria,
Artemisia,
the mother—
and the aunt.

Auntie Mugwort
won’t look away
or roast
when you’ve been bad.

“Come, child,
take a chair.”
In front of the fire
she brews.

She strokes the hair
out from your eyes
and makes you feel
at ease.

“Rest now,” she says.

A biscuit
she will offer.
Wheaty, sweet—
it almost tastes
too good.

She’s seen things—
her silver hair,
burgundy dress,
moths in her
wolf-fur coat.

Holding,
sighing,
breathing,
stroking,
slowing—
what
don’t you know?

Her sing-song voice—
in your mind
you’re drifting,
drifting now,

as she slips out—
for a smoke.