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To Part II

The Golem Envisions his Origins

1- The Golem Obeys the Witch’s Summons

	Similar to the meanest 
		hovel, I am constructed of wattle,
wicker, the unpronounceable name
	of the creator and dung.

	My mistress, the Witch, needed
		only a slip of parchment under clay
tongue to do the trick. Sorcery
	requires gall, will,

	craftsmanship, not wisdom. I’ve been taught
		my letters, learned to count
with cabbages. And there’s always sweeping
	to do, something that needs chopping,

	protection, hauling, or a cauldron about
		to boil over. She summons me
to her quilts, tearing my straw hair
	out by the roots, biting my chest
	
	deeply as she cries 
		out that she needs me inside
her, that we are made of the same
	stuff, and when I rise, straw

	from her straw pallet, there is evidence
		of me on the sheets, manure
flecks, shredded parchment, clay
	crumbs spilled from her lips.

	On moonless nights the coven
		comes scratching at the garden
gate, and there are rituals of breaking
	glass and cacophonous laughter. Afterwards

	she pants, you are mine
		in my ear, I’m melting
she gasps, molding me within the heat
	of her thighs. She hisses

	you are abomination, and I
remain silent, the inspired tongue
forbidden to speak the un-nameable
	word of inspiration.

con't.

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