Tuesday, March 3, 2020


after witches


They ride like men in tales of snow

where a fire-witch mates with birds,

but in a tale that is real as calendric

hours, that ride on coal winds of ice,

when the cold isn't snow but stabbing

needles in a spine, in sleep swords

caress warm skins, in wake shivering

embers alight burns, the real witch

strings eggs like pearls 
 a wreath

around her neck purposed from birds

and threads.  So, the dream shows

the murder 
 storm of wings  their

heads missing, strewn as offering

across tiled tarmac, pathway of

prayers, where the witch alludes

a shrine 
 stake of stale logs hacked

from silver-bearded oaks 
 and fire

is round as the body of bowls, bodies

of crows, beaks of coal, winds of past

and flesh of future; they know from

the way their wings flap time is here,

one sip will send a whip down her throat.

Click below to read the new poem  

only on 
Fantasy and Science

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