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From the Next Weird Sister

By Laura Hamblin

It matters not that my ankles are shapely and gracefulOr that once, and I remember it well
They said I had a splendid head of hair- 
Perhaps the loveliest in all of Scotland.  

One need not be a beldam to be a witch.  
It takes only a desperate malignant need  
To which there can be no relinquishment.  
Be saucy and over-bold
Your charms enough will change you.  

For now the sun is setting,  
And our clan meets again
Here on the heath we spread the spoils of our battle,  
And offer them to vacant sable skies
The fair men have called foul fair  
And the foul men have called fair foul.  
The fog is lifting,  
But the filth in the air still remains.  

Sometimes I wish I were a birth-strangled babeThen at least my finger would have a priceAnd I might be understood  
Or might understand the unknown powers.  
But I was destined to live
And am driven to accomplish deeds without names

Come away, come away, come awayWhen labor is too great 
Then is when a birth occurs
I, mother of maggots,  
I lay the eggs of my brain in night visionsThere to incubate, molt and corrode,  
There to pardon and poison all entrails.  

And what of you?  
It matters not that your neck is slender;  
Or you, that your breasts are warm and supple You, with that raging void 
You too can be a midnight hag.  
It occurs to us all, at one time or another,  
When a broken heart is the gift and the wound,  
Sin can be a soothing salve.  

The charm is wound up
Sisters, let us take leave 
Something wicked this way comes 
We go in search of newts, and a messiah

Laura Hamblin