deepundergroundpoetry.com
Making Love to a Witch
She walked up to me as I collected
firewood. She giggled and kissed
me on the lips, this grown woman,
and I felt bashful but not cross,
nor any sort of mad. I felt Woman
was only of the shaming dross,
once she had left and I was left alone.
What else to call my spitting on the throne
but sin? I’ll say it clear: I wanted her again.
Somehow I knew. I’d see her in the woods that night.
Her hips were wide, and freckled fine as dew.
Her shoulders too. In among the fallen
locks of thick red hair I found the Sapphic
witch anew; fat-arsed, hipped, Satan’s apple.
firewood. She giggled and kissed
me on the lips, this grown woman,
and I felt bashful but not cross,
nor any sort of mad. I felt Woman
was only of the shaming dross,
once she had left and I was left alone.
What else to call my spitting on the throne
but sin? I’ll say it clear: I wanted her again.
Somehow I knew. I’d see her in the woods that night.
Her hips were wide, and freckled fine as dew.
Her shoulders too. In among the fallen
locks of thick red hair I found the Sapphic
witch anew; fat-arsed, hipped, Satan’s apple.
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