The Witch's Brew
They arouse suspicious dreams, circling her –
these words of want
bitten on a message left, where no space is left for her.
They have a monopoly on all things –
her conscience, her motives, her inner switch.
They feel her pulse and decide,
reign the veins in
and position the bridle –
take her to the water to drink.
The pail is one centimetre wide, sugar coated and an easy sink –
she necks them all,
for they have a monopoly on all things –
pain and pleasure in any sensory form,
the insides of her are in their hands always –
she is unforgiven,
an empty vessel.
They pour things in to her – a brew of nettles,
a metal – the soft smiling petal
shrewdly worn, the place that they gave to her
to know what’s for,
and all that she is for.
It is a trap, they say,
for your disease – a monthly lack of logic.
They have a monopoly on these things.
They stir, boil and simper –
the fragrance lingers in the air. It falls on her skin, exhausted
and keeps her sin visible.
They have a monopoly on her.
She is drunk and unlovable,
What right does she have to love?
They, on the other hand
demand she fill them up to the brim.