Her Broom, Or the Ride of the Witch

My 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