Yael Veitz is a New York-based poet and professional empath. Her works reflect her geographically-diverse background, her work in mental health, and, occasionally, her love for her cats. Read her work below and at the links on the publication section of this website.
Matriarch, good witch
Her eyes hazel moons,
gray curls spinning into my brown ones
She shelters me from deluge,
hands me feathered arrows on each visit,
feeds me crumbs of sanity
‘til I can keep them down.
This is Sara:
not the mentor I pictured, ancient and grave in her desert,
but laughing, buoyant,
with her sorceress' intuition,
her measureless magic words.
Aboard her whaler,
we harpoon fears,
stretch our fingers across oceans
she, lodestar, burns bright.
Inside her cabin
we summon fireflies,
spell out wishes on the log walls,
This is therapy.
This--not the hundred other times I've tried.
There is no disconnect.
I grow into her,
twin hazel eyes like mirrors
I feather my own arrows now, feed crumbs to other folk,
wield my own magic;
still I turn to her in wonder
apprentice glowing in her lightning
like the moon.
I jolt around the room,
interstellar dust—comet tails sparking up in every direction
The air is afire.
I'm an asteroid belt
but you burn steady, slow.
your gravity gives me direction.
I condense, pivot around you like a carousel horse,
marveling all the while.
You regard my dusty surface—my craterous complexion,
smooth me out.
You remind me that moons inspire lore,
that the way I see myself--lifeless, pockmarked, grey—
bears no resemblance to Artemis,
or to any ancient moon-myth,
those hundred goddesses' nude forms,
glowing in the twilight
You kiss my round head,
send me spinning.
You give me my axis,
say, "Luna, you're enchanting