Thursday, October 1, 2015


I understand your Witch.
She stirs the cauldron:
bits of snails, sharp things
fill her brew.

I estimate her call: she feeds
your fear, she wants
your faint heart, craves it
living from your breast.

You seek her belly,
need her nipple, want
to turn into the Earth
of her, be guarded

as she lulls you, rocks you,
croons, and eats your soft heart.

Mary Bast, Revelations: Personal Poems by Cincinnati Poets, 1998

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