The WitchesThe witches speak a languageclearer than my mother's, the edgeof a blade, crack of broken glass,silky slide of sin, come in, come in, inmy ear, a soft patting drum, thespell bound lullabythey croak and coo, all manner oftone and it is sweet as the summertongue growing fat on hand cart ice creampops, brisk as the Boston cabbies,neither here nor there, they areever here evermore. They areinside me, flapper dancingthe pelvis bones, acutely out ofstyle and carefree, they have me,the potion's daughter, their invitationsheer formality. I am in, I amin, I am deepat the bottom of the cauldron.Do you dare consume me? The womanwho gives cancer out freely and livesto die yet never dies, the sickanomaly. Can you hear them?Press your earto the flat of my skin. I amthe cast-off shell of the sea,hollow and rustling – that, there,that is them – their greedy handsare chanting, come in, come in,
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