CW: violence, death or dying, blood and bodily fluids, bodily harm.
This poem was inspired by the movie The Witch. At one point in the film, the protagonist finds herself floating with other witches around a bonfire, and I wanted to take the scene a step further. The rituals of witchcraft are intended to control outcomes. Being able to fly is often perceived as freedom, but it also threatens a loss of self-control. I wanted to write about the moment when dream becomes nightmare and explore how a ritually minded person endeavors to make sense of it.
Whereas once we writhed
and galloped across the
night sky
our indecent idolatry
rewarded with weightlessness
and voluptuous flight
now we cower under the
hulk of the dark hemisphere
fearing another mysterious reprisal.
We remember Gerta
milk and menses anointed
under the full moon
the pine needles clinging
to her toes
as she ascended above
the bonfire
shadows chasing the
contours of her body
before forces unseen
tore her apart.
Blood and gore peppered our
upturned faces, spattered
our raised arms and bare breasts
as if from a cloud burst.
Our Dark God, what have
we done to displease You?
Has our faith been tepid?
Did you allow the False One’s
wrath to find us?
Or do other powers exist
in these woods?
Must we propitiate a new Lord
or Lady?
Please send us a sign
in the ashes of a fire
or the contents
of a quail egg,
only don’t ask us
to look to the sky.
We still feel the blood
on our cheeks
the gristle heavy in our hair
every time we lift our chins.
