Friday, August 5, 2016

The Witch Series

Crone Song

My face is a hex                     
made of clouds                       
rapidly passing.

These hands betray,               
and always pay                      
what the cards tell them.

Where is the beak that can peck away at sorrow?

My knees are a jinx
crusted and frozen
over, leaving me
rooted and tree slow.

These feet search
floor after floor          
for the path
that will lead me
to what must be said.

What chain opens up grief’s damper,
so its terrible vapors can fly?

A vestigial tail
at the base of my spine,
wags at the prospect of relief.

My mouth unlocks
in harmony.

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