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.