dreamed 2008/8/17 by Wayan
My sister and I go visit the Crone.
Her thatched home, low and long,
broods on an oval traffic-isle.
That gray Roraima rears a full
yard above pave. On the concrete
lip the Crone's initiates sleep.
For Crone is a witch-smeller--
Her own grandson, in his teens,
Smoggy salmon dawn-glow.
Not a snake, because my tail
Witch-Smeller looms with a foot-long knife
Overheard snake and that's enough.
A lost moan, long and low.
She says "Leave. This I do alone:
the hardest thing a mother's called to do--
kill a serpent-son."
My sister Miriel stands breast to knife!
And other Crones all over town
Witch-Smeller rants, long and low;
A few years later I visit. He's fine.
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