The Witch
Mystical Poem
From deep within a hole
That turns, twists, rolls and moans
Comes a gurgled desperate “please”
Primal inner voices shout
Seeking a solution – sound
Upon which they can agree
A taught wire tied to gut
Sets him onto his first foot
And taunts his will to seek fuel
A chemical, mechanical or electrical machine
Chilling model of the anthropocene
Tall, dark, chrome and always cool
Wrapped individually
In plastic, clear and crinkly
They are green, yellow and pink
Moving about in a trance
Bringing props into his dance
Acting as if by instinct
Towards a worn lower drawer
He turns and stoops to withdraw
The flower of his potion
With no fire and no kettle
Substances are laid in levels
Stacked by repeated motions
As with all great art
Each piece plays a part
in the magic melody
An asymmetric, yet perfect whole
There is nothing of which he knows
That can please so thoroughly.
more by JACOB LAMOUNTAIN
Photograph by Stefan Ringler
