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The Golem Envisions his Origins

6- The Witch Recants her Creation

		He comes home charred
	from the infernos. I scream
		at him, grieve, hammer
	planks across his cracked
		torso, nailing clay back in place

	even as the mallet sends
		chunks of burnt dung flying.
	Beneath the flaked ash, the texture
		is rough and I lick the skin
	smooth, hating myself and the taste

		all the while. He never speaks
	but stares through deep holes
		in his molten face. His nose
	once fine droops, his chin is
		weakened from the furnace.

	Why do you do it,
		I scold, why? I whimper knitting
	yet another beard of reeds. I despise
		my harridan’s shriek, his mute
	obedience, and I realize

		the moment before I placed
	the slip in his mouth I should have
		cut out his tongue or mine 
	or both so there was nowhere
		for the word to take hold.

con't.

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