The Witch Remembers The Village in Terms of Its Wants
How many bees     for this came
            to their deaths     how many whores
stroking pink candles     with oil
            lips blood-bloated     kneel
to your grandmother’s     grave
            in the gloaming     knead
dough with spit     fingers
            backwards     Paternosters burn
incense and breadcrumbs     make
            the men come     even
the regal     well-weaned
            and rutting     women wanted
me     to gift them     signs will he be
            grain     of salt     or sea
winds lifted     seagulls 
            circled     his leg
severed     floating a small
            boat in the sea     how
seldom I told     them what
            this world     really tells
what flesh     tells bone
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