rabbit, blood
queen, O Luna winking
for Lumiere rockets.
Crepe dangles an ectoplasmic
wattle from your
maiden's cone--Mycale
cast your spell on the
rustic moor, rod in hand.
Night marjorette, moonlight
on the pert folds of
your witch's shift. My lady
of etched stars, nothing
but a singer of songs.
Just a girl
in a swamp. Just
a mage maging
for her magic moon,
not a man but a big
bauble, a porthole
to the mother & then the crone,
pomegranate seeds dropped
from their aprons as the tides
tug her in for a kiss.
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