Lida Broadhurst
Ken Basarke
WITH THE WITCH
Arrival in the entry to her domain
looms a mistake. Already, my nose
drowns in odors, pluming from jars,
probably stuffed with those
who could not survive her treatments.Her hand dangles an instrument,
an extra finger, more easily to gouge
tender flesh. Like mine.Behind surrounding curtain, something
moans. other idiots who obeyed
her summons. I curse my friends
who promised my happiness
in learning the future.Now only terror pulses in my ears.
A cup is offered, white and clean.
Or magicked to appear thus.
I drink the liquid poured in, hoping
to please her. It tastes of rotten stringbeans.
an instant before they become slime.
She nods, points to her altar,
draped with sheets.She smiles as I recline. Old hag,
eager to begin her ghastly rites.
She bends over me, gray hair brushing my face
like cobwebs. Twisted, I lie as
her master has decreed sacrificial
arrangement.Dark eyes scan symbolic fonts, voice mutters
meaningless syllables, fingers wriggle odd patterns.
Red flames flicker, tongues to consume my soul
Her white robe ripples crimson. The altar trembles,
possessed by forces at her command.Another voice chants weird tidings.
My tongue curls to beg salvation
from its hidden face. Almost I welcome
murmur. "Done and done."
But I am undone. eyes shut tight as fists to hide
my tears, yearning for any darkness.She creeps close to pat my hand. I shudder
"The CAT scan says you will be well."
Light wreathes her features, now
Gleamed with compassion.I recognize The Goddess.