Burning of the Witch

Burning of the Witch

A film of smoke makes
my reflection hazy as
the stake burns beneath me.
The end of my lips
rise and I can't remember
what that is called.
A rope of men bind my hands
to the pole poking me and yelling
obscenities.
The air smells of ancient flowers
seeping into copper as the
oven is churned by God.
My hair flies up from the
energy of the heat and is
transformed from brown to red.
This is not a metamorphosis.

RFV May 2008