Here is the furious woman.
Her spite the sharp berry on a sweet tree,
her rage the looming spire of a witch’s hat.
She is wringing me out, she is holding me under.
She is furious with the man who spat me
and furious with the woman who spun me.
She is the furious woman.
She is all the black skeletal trees on the bare windy hill
cartoon as shadow puppets, dead as wood.
She is the spinning dame with the poison thread
flat as evil in its single dimension.
Her fury is a sharp high shriek up in the branches,
the flap of a bat, tarred feather of crows.
I am a mouse flit over forest floor.
She is blind with her fury as she sharpens it.
I am the brown leaf rolling over brown leaves,
a crackle of dried out green on the grave of leaves
and then the wind rises, her voice high on the wind.
I float before it like a discordant bridesmaid.