Her Broom,
or the Ride of
the Witch
from WitchesMy
broom
with its tufts of roses
beckoning at the black,
with its crown of thistles,
prickling the sky,
with its carved crescents
winking silverly
at Diana,
with its thick brush
of peacock feathers
sweeping the night,
with its triangle
of glinting fur.
I ride
over the roofs
of doom.
I ride
while he thinks me safe
in our bed.
My forehead
he thinks that scraggly
other broom,
my hips that staff,
my sex that stump
of blackthorn
& of twine.
Ah, I will ride
over the skies--
orange as apricots
slashed red
with pomegranate clouds-
He will think me
safe in our bed.
He will think I fear
such fabulous
flight.
It is his bed I fear!
I will burn the clouds
with my marvelous broom.
I will catch Persephone's seeds
on my flaming tongue.
Ah--if I burn for this,
how beautiful my ashes--
& how beautiful,
my beautiful, comet-tailed
broom!
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