Baba Yaga
the wine
she cellar-ed well
asked if eye could
help while here
she drove sun to rain
even when explaining
how to cook something later
was she ripe at birth
i am sure she was
imprinting herself
upon everyone
as soon as she
could actualize
a thought
or bargain
between flesh variance
and cyclical ritual
repeat or rinse
and pretend
pattern almost
i kept
exploring myself
stepped, steeped
in that womb
she was always time
dressed nine gates
living between silk
and ash
she is sly
hidden wink quick
macabre wonderful
bold and sweet structural
reminiscent Spring
she has a pawed earth scent
Winter root dragon
hibernation on knees
a burning quiet
wanting
for
a somewhere
back
inside
she knows bones
carry secrets
in their marrow
and that caterpillars
never mind
being eaten
by birds
while eating
their own way
to wings
vessel pressure to precious
women
pearl
after
child bearing
life was
to wear
and be worn
with nothing
but now
where words
are not
as important
as understanding
she demands places
in her self
horses and carriage
carrying Dawn
her tits and lips
up and down
an old road
Prometheus
once took home
to peddlers lane
nothing but love for sale
or else all is
given away freely
and we turned
the bottles
sixty degrees
every few
new moons
occasionally
we'll open one
imagining while drinking
that we are roasting
tenderly aged suckling
disobedient spoiled
Alpine children
spit turning
them slowly
as we hum
the songs
of the seasons
in the poems
of urban social folklore
humans and their lusts
for their comfortable cages
as the Hemlocks
bent in a lean
intending on
listening with rhubarb pie
warm at the window sill
EJR ©
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