Tate N. Oquendo has been cultivating an orchard of memory. In details of shears, smoke, sheds, and other objects, each poem in this collection is a kind of spell. Some works are incantations, some are evocations, and others whisper words of protection against the particular fruit growing in this metaphorical landscape. These patterns are cast along with identities Tate inhabits—disabled, queer, trans, Latinx, witch—collected into a mixture for the wards. That Spell is a sigil where each stroke of trauma and healing manifests in language.