Perhaps we should have let her burn. Perhaps the flames were a gift, a divine invitation to free ourselves from this obsession with edifice and artifice. Perhaps if she had burned to the ground, we might have seen that sacred space requires no cathedral to exist.
Warriors, why do you let your weapons fall? A battle lost is not yet a battle done! Does the outnumbered wolf bare her throat to await the killing bite? Never! She fights until her very last breath no matter how much blood she’s lost or how her vision darkens! Her snapping jaws are ever at the ready to take one final foe down with her. Pick up your blades, warriors; fight with every heartbeat left!
in my dreams I slit the throats of abusive fathers my nails sharp as harpy talons I drag rapists into the streets by their hair smash their skulls with a silver hammer I ride laughing through dark woods on the back of a great goat I fear nothing and no one in my dreams
Forgive my lack of manners, I just /devour/ poetry can never seem to let it breathe, take a sip roll the vintage along my pallet and discern dimensions of linguistic terroir. I am just so /parched/ you see I swig straight from the bottle like a boor each syllable sweet as honeyed wine divine versification rejuvenation! But then the last stanza’s been swallowed metaphors drying on my tongue and I’m a desert /desperate/ for a drop pining for poetry’s reprieve once more.
Perhaps I have always walked death’s road. After all, my corpse so easily reaches out ‘cross space and time to touch its siblings: to lay in the snow on a stark Russian mountainside (it was not your fault, Igor, you could not have known); to curl up among the masses huddled beneath Pompeii’s tephra burial shroud; to drown in Sendai’s monstrous waves or freeze in the north Atlantic on a clear April night. These deaths, these beloved dead, are clear as my own memories. Is this witchcraft? Is this wyrd? (Is this anything?)
I am not the granddaughter of the witches you couldn’t burn. I am not the blood of their blood or any of that suburban white witch bullshit. I am Witch because the title is mine to claim by right: by right of my rage by right of my resistance by right of my existence in a world that threatens to crush everything I love under the boot heel of assimilation. You want Burning Times? I’ll show you some motherfucking Burning Times.
The picking could be worse!
At least I didn’t make anything bleed today.
Well, this morning.
Okay, in the last hour.
…anything that’s visible to others.
But I promise I’ll be better!
I’ll go cold turkey right now.
I mean, starting tomorrow.
Okay, starting Monday.
Well, the first Monday of next month.
this would make a great New Year’s resolution.
Now I know you are gone, truly gone because I no longer hear your voice in my head that subtle blade which you wielded so expertly to reopen old wounds and when did you ever miss a chance to remind me of my failures?
I think perhaps
I am as much a woman as
Scylla with her many serpent heads
Charybdis with her churning waters
Ammit with her long crocodile jaws
all bloody from chewing rotten hearts
which is to say