Witchcraft Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The scarlet ingénue
Swings in the cloudless park;
The sky is bare naked blue.
Her lips are humming
Like the song of a downed
Power-line
In the arc at play,
Her talented backbone is
Arthur’s sword
Sheathed between her
Breasts, the tip piercing
Her opulent lake, the truth of
Her fits drooling like a clutching orchid,
Where the sun swims torpidly
In the humidity expulsed from
Her petite body.
The alchemy for precious metals
Repressed in her lips,
She whispers of divinity
And she smiles
At the boys she’s turned away,
Disavowing the
Touch of morality—
The fuse is lit like
Phosphorous packed into a
Sling,
She burns the air—
She blinds airplanes;
A nebula is her talent exploding
There in the park just off the way;
Six feet off the ground,
She calls housewives to
Their windows to partake
In the act of a
Young God
Learning her craft.