I would make a poor monk
for their credence would be lost on me.
“Desire is the root of your suffering, dear girl,” they would say.
And I would shake my head fiercely,
feverish from the dreams of lust and transcendence beaded on my forehead.
And I could not, I would not, rub the sleep from my eyes to their satisfaction.
For my desire for my God burrows into my flesh
like sharp talons into my naked shoulder.
A pain so delightfully endured.
Don’t you see, my love?
Without longing, there would be no union.
And do you not crave to be one with your God?
To be one with your Queen?
Oh, desire can be the holiest of experiences,
should you let it, my love.
Let go of my desire?
No, you misunderstand.
I am far less agreeable than a creature of peace, you see.
A witch’s bones are molded with a paste of ash and spit
and threaded together with white flame.
The creation of wanton wreckage
and the meandering wildfires of a woman’s will,
anchored to the ancient volcanic rocks of the earth
with sinew, sex, and the cleansing tears of the crone.
Oh, I crave that union.
I crave the danger of the perilous nuptials
in the valley between the sleeping gods and the waking beasts.
I want to walk into the bear den
on the far side of the crooked mountain,
my milky thighs dripping with sticky honey,
because I am prepared to be your meal.
Because I’m a good little heathen girl.
Because I desire my desire for you.
I built an altar of stones for you
because I know you will love it
and reward me handsomely upon it.
I bite my own lip to taste the blood
that opens the door to your kingdom.
Your kingdom of rapture, of stormy seas,
of tangled hair and gleaming Nordic armor.
I rub the dirt into your back with every gasping breath.
I drink the tonic of longing,
the one my grandmother’s grandmother brewed in secret,
because it’s bottomless.
A sugared shadow.
A shade of a being, safeguarded in the dark.
No, don’t worry my love, no one shall see us.
Your desire is safe with me.
If only we could meet in the light of day.
maybe only for today.