That old black magic called...

They call us by many names

~ whispers ~

mutating through time till we transform

into multi-headed hydra bearing little

resemblance to the flesh of our womanhood.

Our names are larger than we ever were

~ feared ~ revered ~ summoned ~

through incantations—hushed prayers, the fallen

ash of incense, fragrant flame tree flower filling

nostrils of the desperate. They wear amulets and

charms, chanting our names: once, twice, thrice—

invoking our power. We feed on slander of the fearful.

~ Wicked ~ bloodthirsty ~ filth-eating spirit ~

~ demonic beauty. Oh, yes—we become

what they fear the most. O ye puritanical self-

flagellators—when we enter your erotic dreams,

you declare us cursed. Oh, how the mighty fall

prey to forbidden desires. You created us

when you cast us onto history’s bonfire.

We fizzed and spat as our mortal coils burned,

vowing we would return to haunt you.

You cried Witch! The embers of our names

line your throat. It was for love that we burned.

We smoulder still.