by Sheikha A.
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.
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