In the marketplace, dry sticks are piled high
A thicket of shadows, a poor coat to wear
I am but a wax image of myself, a doll\'s body
Sickness begins here, I am the dartboard for witches
The devil can only eat the devil out
In the month of red leaves, I climb to a bed of fire
Blaming the dark, the mouth of a door
The cellar\'s belly, they\'ve blown my sparkler out
A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage
The dead have such large eyes
I am intimate with a hairy spirit
Smoke wheels from the beak of this empty jar
If I am a little one, I can do no harm
Sitting under a potlid, tiny and inert as a rice grain
They turn the burners up, ring after ring
We are full of starch, my small white fellows, we grow
It hurts at first, the red tongues will teach the truth
Mother of beetles, unclench your hand
I\'ll fly through the candles\' mouth like a singeless moth
Give me back my shape, I am ready to construe the days
I coupled with dust in the shadow of a stone
My ankles brighten, brightness ascends my thighs
I am lost, I am lost, in the roves of all this light. (\"Witches\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.