And so, I whisper into scorched grass
a call to all of the witches burned for being feral bodies.
I beg you to show yourselves in the fireplaces
of congressional figures who make choices against the autonomy of
these righteous bodies that cradle a uterus.
Scream something unholy thru the pilot lights of their furnaces.
Haunt the warmth of their existence with a raving and
howling hunger they cannot possibly feed.
First, each man who aims to carve an orphanage of cribs from our hip
bones; provoke him to strip naked in the center of town, account for
every blemish on his holy flesh.
And then, dance wild and naked in the prayer candles
of every goody woman who robs choice from our mouths.
Drive her into the river to prove she can sink
gracefully as only a truly righteous woman would.
Come dear witches, remind them of what we can do
when our bodies are used as evidence for our undoing.