Skin stretched like the
croak of a frog,
Deflating. Motherhood
drapes her cloak. Newt resting
on my swollen breasts
like a hot water bottle.
Eye mask worn like
Seasoned actor. Blinkers
To perform success.
Hecate knocks at
Midnight. Radiant in
Fury. Dressed gothic
Black. She struts
Past my ever
Sleepwalking self to
Inspect the baby
In the cradle.
And my locked
Lips do not
Utter their wish.
She sees in-
Side me. The
Cobwebs and lies.
I beg her
To leave, to
Acknowledge me, to
Answer my questions.
She is silent
As she unpacks
Her suitcase.
The cauldron stares
In mornings’ light.
So dark, against
The salt and
Pepper. Everything
Feels heavier with
Just one hand.
Hecate sleeps in
My spare room
While my husband
Is at work.
Sunshine is soporific.
Moonlight makes us
Murderous.
Each evening we
Build a fire
And tell stories.
Hecate marks ash
On my brow
While I breastfeed.
My skin is
Shedding and I
Have to sweep
My sheets before
Breakfast. Hecate tells
Me to save
The flakes for
Throwing curses.
I grow my
Own anger back.
Fed to me
In bits and
Pieces. I wonder
Why Hecate takes
Up so much
Room. She says,
It’s good I’m
Asking.
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