Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 19 (201.)

How long must we stand for-profit?
Gluttonous, greedy bastards shovel
fistfuls of dollars, fives, tens, Jesus,
there are hundreds in there,
into their gobs the money goes –
when they’ll finally be full,
nobody knows.

The moon waxes full and we
await the witches, whole covens of clever
spellslingers and doomsingers,
healers and changers,
we need all the help we can get if,
if we’re to blast this mountain to bits.

The magical women, they’ve
done so much good for their communities,
and the men on the mountain always call
for fire
for pitchforks
for rope
for bullets
for destruction to undo the healing tincture
put in the earth by our cell-weavers.

Fabrics of existence may be stitched
into patterns of wondrous beauty,
endless mystery,
whole vibrant histories of good health
and heartfelt songs,
yet the men on the mountain
employ shears, scissors, swords, scythes,
implements of demise
to render the witches’ wholesome tableau
to bits of torn felt and fluff.

Cross-stitch our cultures together,
so we are different squares
on the same world-quilt,
and if the men in their mountain mansions
refuse our invitation to
a fairer cohabitation,
then

let us summon fires from the stars.
We will burn the blanket if we must.

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