A Witch's Brew
An angel crouched
as if to shit
commands the upper world.
Those gathered
smell a witch's brew,
a stew half hidden
under her white robe.
The face she wears
is not a face,
not human,
from an age before the fall,
time lost to us,
a stage where men
& animals
are one. A stranger
in dark glasses
near the mother rat
his mind like yours or mine
holds the final secret,
mothers poring over books
or praying knobby hands
squeezed tight.
The little man over their heads
is like a bat his legs
an ape's legs,
a prehensile big toe
sucking air
two squatting humans
at his side.
The Witch of Barahona
licks them into shape,
signals the rites of bliss
& piss
before she sets them free.
19.i.04
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