The
                                    Girl from Providence
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    Sandy
                                    DeLuca
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    Each day she walked ten blocks
                                    
                                    to the chapel;
                                    
                                    her hair dark and wild,
                                    
                                    black liner, platform shoes,
                                    
                                    ouroboros tat on her left arm.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    Providence in summer.
                                    
                                    Arcade rich with poetry and books.
                                    
                                    Chinese restaurant on the corner.
                                    
                                    City hall and smoky hauntings.
                                    
                                    Long-haired boys stopped and stared.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    Strange men followed.
                                    
                                    But could not harm her.
                                    
                                    She knew secrets,
                                    
                                    and incantations.
                                    
                                    Salt sprinkled on pavement.
                                    
                                    Tied a prayer bead to her belt.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    You loved her then,
                                    
                                    read her letters,
                                    
                                    taught her to conjure monsters…
                                    
                                    shared grandpa’s grimoire.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    One night, she vanished through a mirror
                                    over the bathroom sink;
                                    her footsteps in ashes of your rituals;
                                    
                                    Tobacco flavored wine and belladonna…
                                    salt and prayer cards on the sill.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    Now, she knows darker mysteries…
                                    
                                    the kind city boys write on abandoned mills…
                                    
                                    sigils and hex signs beneath a ruined bridge…
                                    
                                    crooked road to the deepest abyss.
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    No coming back. 
                                    
                                     
                                    
                                    © Sandy DeLuca 2024