Angels of Prostitution

Naamah, slender-ankled, with bells in your hair
you dance with a cymbal and summon old regents,
they sway to your lilting damnation and wish for
crimson lips and black curls to strangle, tangle.

Agrat bat Mahalath, the Night Howler, you rage
in a cage on a stage, braids like poisonflowers
you are desert storm and sandstone immortality
mistress of burning wind, you cry out for death.

Eiseth Zenumin, pretty cobweb queen, black widow
my end is your comb, fluttering between eyelashes
you pluck butterflies and crunch them, melodious
snap of antennae, monarch pains, birthing pangs.

Lilith Breakneck, queen of all courtesan angels
your throne is Samael’s lap, your whip abortion
infant corpses your throne, a gaze just like stone
I lose myself and perish on your breasts, alone.

When Babushka Was Young

When Baba Yaga was young, she had cornsilk hair
razors for teeth, and arms pale as walrus tusks.

When Baba Yaga danced, the ferns caught on fire
and the mountains wept rivers to veil her glory.

Where Baba Yaga walked, Ivan da Maryas bloomed
the forest awakened and wolves kept her rhythm.

What Baba Yaga wants, she plucks from the Zoryas
she took witchcraft from the depths, pestle salt.

When Baba Yaga cooks, she simmers greens to reds
brews baby bone stew – it ages her just right.

When Baba Yaga sings, zhar ptica flies far away,
and Kashchei’s princesses bend like roaring wind.

What Baba Yaga is, is the taiga and god hollows
Babushka sees all, knows all, takes all she wants.