How Myths Learn to Eat

CRYSTAL J. HOFFMAN

In this one small corner,

with this one small sun setting,

witches ache

thinking of the heat

they could fashion

from wolf skin.

Their bellies grown too soft

with too much room for God,

colors turn crimson

as bloody Appalachia,

moods become stone

as solid steel France.

Each bacchanal on crutches,

each Freya with the flu,

they rise like lukewarm

violin concertos and car bombs,

pashmina silk clad,

cast and chiseled from toxic clay.

Determined to acquire a taste

for sour grass by the next black sun,

they renounce Orphic

flesh and stale Greek,

eat fish from dirty rivers,

speaking only three phrases

from each tongue they’ve devoured:

“Farewell,” “my brother,” and “Thank You.”