Milk Witch
When hearth light licks
the black milk, the liquid
turns to sky–stars
in a shallow bowl,
showing weather, blight,
cities old or unborn.
To see ahead, I sense
the patterns underlying lives.
These secret furrows have driven
me to the edge of the woods
as have the farmers
who shun, and yet keep me
close, wanting what I know,
but afraid of their own thirst.
They avert their eyes when I barter,
but slink to my door for visions.
Brave boys with iron knives
or elders concerned about the crop,
all cringe at the bleating
from the stable. The poag
are the source of their fortunes,
and yet they treat my animals
like monsters. But all creatures
can be crafted to serve a purpose,
raised for wool, strength,
or the most potent milk.
I am sent to a field,
guarded by stones and chalk.
The village knows mint or mushroom
can distort the senses,
and fears any pasture grazed
by my poag will sour their herds.
But it is only milk
that lifts the veils.
And as animals are bred,
men believe their fates
are fashioned by gods,
by the clay people on their altars.
They stand in my house,
asking of love, conquest, omens.
Each cares only for what befalls
him and his own. I see more:
the shapes of their deities,
the cultivators of history.
When I was young, Father took
a paper pot from the loft
and tossed it in the fire.
It burst, spilling shiny wings.
I taste the milk and the air
splits like that nest.
The world is built
on a secret foundation,
crawling with wasps.