PINK SMOKE

I need a story where
the woods witch

does not rot with
neglect, deemed too weird

to love, but instead
  ventures into town,
swings unwithered hips

on a beat-filled floor,
reels in a full-flesh

partner in lust (no toad)
to adorn her abdomen
  with lush attention.

I need this witch—
who illuminates luck
  for others—

to get lucky herself,
satisfied at long last.

For a batch of hours
the pair will purr at stars
  and growl Moonward.

To unravel a dry spell
stay light as a feather,
  stiff as a stone.

Remain joyfully stubborn ‘til
one night a bell clangs
  the matter over.

Some bed-shake rhythms
can reverse curses.

In the morning—
when she grinds coffee beans

for her bed-guest and
  re-enters heaven—

villagers will watch
her cabin’s chimney
  exhale pink smoke.

And they’ll know
their seer
  has been seen,
pounced, drenched.

They’ll think,
Maybe spring
  will come early.