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[Error: unknown template qotd]My answer:

[witches]
©2001 Alix Olson.


they’ve made us fear every year,
every extra hair that sprouts on tit or chin
til we begin to forget the wisdom we’ve collected,
til we’ve defected to the distinguished older men
and they win-- again.
well, i’ve decided to trade that old lady prescription
for a witch revolution that defies description,
this hag will ride her wrinkles to the sky,
when i’m an old witch
i’ll be ready to fly.

i’ll just saddle up my saddle bags
one pouch for each thigh,
pack em with pride,
yeah, grip my thick sides and ride.
i’ll grasp my broomstick with a gnarled knuckle
buckle in each saggy tit,
then fuck that shit, i’ll say
these fat witch titties hurt today
and they’ll wiggle
loose and alive.

and as my broomstick rises,
i’ll shake my hips like tambourines,
alarming little boys with the noise
of my shaking thighs in the skies above
and all the while, the little girls will smile
cause they’ll know the music of sisterly love.

and it’s funny how they say an old cunt
should be all dried up
cause I’ll give myself a lube job
shake my broomstick til my clit throbs
til i sing into the winds the unpredictable desire,
the unfathomable fire of self-loving passion.
til i scream the screams of rapes unwitnessed,
til i moan the moans of wives accosted
by "boys will be boys" who just lost it for a moment
the groans of all those moments running together
into some woman’s forever.

i’ll rise with the song of the witch unleashed:
this bitch barking wild, this woman-child,
this tight-ass cunt uncoiling
at the sight of the cauldron boiling...
see, in that sky we’re gonna cause some trouble,
make a little dick stew bubble
we’ll need the tongue of a liar or two,
some Bush and some Rudy should do,
a sprig of Rush Limbaugh, i thought
a dash of Ronnie Reagan on top,
that slop is bound to trickle down.
a Wall Street boy, a CEO or two,
they can downsize all day
while they’re merging in our stew.
and the eye of Newt too,
and all the other mean white boys—
the military, the budget, some of their toys
to keep em quiet while they’re brewed,
you know boys when they riot
they’re downright rude.
and I’ll keep stirring up my pot,
stirring up my plot to throw in any man
who puts his hands on my sister when she says no
who’s looking tasty now, mister,
in you go.

and i’ll be flying.
i’ll have my hands in my hair,
i’ll grasp the gray, pay homage to its journey
stroke my leathered skin, full of fight and fury
weathered by the storms of audre lorde,
the rage and glory that hover,
by stories of sisters loving each other.
and i’ll spot a boy scout
helping a granny across the street,
feeling manly and strong,
til this Witch Charming comes along.
I’ll sling my tits like grenades
to the ground. they’ll anchor me down.
I’ll whoop and howl like jane,
swing down on a varicose vein,
unfold my stomach rolls for red carpet,
my royal landing to the street.
i’ll sweep that granny off her feet,
make room on the back of my broom
and we’ll rise through the skies,
two witches surrounded by sisters
soaring through roaring storms,
thunder clouds obscuring vision,
but we’ll know our mission:
to keep riding high.

so i can’t wait until the day
i make my cane my broomstick,
sweep myself off my own two feet,
pick out all my false teeth and grin-
til i’m like mother jones or harriet tubman,
like audre lorde or emma goldman,
like bessie smith or lucille clifton.
til these bones are in their crone prime,

and at that time i won’t grow old with a lady’s grace,
won’t look in the mirror at my wrinkled face
and sigh or groan or cry
cause I’ll be looking at the face of a proud old witch
who’s finally ready to fly--
see, all that hocus pocus shit
is just to scare you away, brother,
cause real witch magic is just
sisters loving each other.


...

That'd be a no. Plastic surgery isn't for me.

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