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2016 December 22

When I came out to the Wood,
I was a child —
looking for the Crone
to cast words on my life
and fix it.

It has taken me half a life
of asking these laughing Trees
how to find her,
to see them pointing at me.

I had not known
that the mud in her hair
had to be thrown there.
I had not known
that the lost crib-babbling
was scribbled on new, pink lips
so we’d have the Spell Words
when we got here.

Stay out of the Wood!
Blame me with,
“That witch will gobble up your Soul,
should you go out there!”
hee heeeeee
Your Soul isn’t yet in you
for me to swallow (if I’d wanted to).
He’s out with my thousand cattle,
wrapped in St. Anthony’s bells,
deep in the sacrament of black mud,
keeping stories
on cave walls.
Now, let me get back to my carving.

My hunger
is for your sureness.
Feed that to my dogs
and your Soul will leap to your body
with such lust
as to hurl you, finally,
into [Hangman’s Gorge].

Stay out!
Do not come asking,
if you hope to keep your golden-frogged coat
or collect white flowers
to be wild for you.

Eat them up, instead!
And then come talk to me.

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