Don’t look into the light at midday,
they’ve said it is poisoned with sun.
Don’t smell the scent of the night,
they’ve said it rots with the moon.
Don’t touch your flesh to fresh rain,
they’ve said clouds coat skin in bile.
Don’t listen to the chant in the wind,
they’ve said it’s swarming with wails.
Don’t look, don’t smell, don’t touch, don’t listen,
don’t be, witch child. They’ve said—
“Shhh, dear heart,
I will sleep skyclad tonight:
flesh and bones serene
on Green Mother’s soil,
soul cloaked
in the ever-watching eye of my dead,
will powered
by the love of my living.
I shall kiss the morning
with sun-cackles
on my lips.”
But they’ve said—
“Shhh, dear heart,
let them say what they’ve been told to say
is real, the fear-ridden know little
of choice.”
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #57: Repeating Oneself, where Rosemary invites us to use repetition.
