Baba Yaga

Phallic mother
I am the forest,
a death that rots beneath
my leaves
can swallow whole
each mind of man
or gently blow on bone.

Come sit inside to grind our paste,
a cloud across the moon,
see which sister shows her face,
on chicken legs the room will turn,
your path will twist if we conspire,
now ask of me a dream, a quest
shadows run if I desire.
You failed your test I take your flesh
and breathe your Russian smell.

The willow wisps so soft
The wizard blows his horn
All creatures call out loud.

A thousand swarm
are by my side
a Firebird burns behind my eyes,
grasping feathers, hands in flames
through these woods
I rise again.