Witch-Lord (a poem)

i grind the herbs i gathered

make a bitter drink

thinking myself a witch-lord

smiling in a pandemic,

scratching my sores

with other witches

circle ‘round the cauldron

chant to red moons

licking my wounds from

blood-hounds of rich men

we robbed

who sobbed

as they beat us senseless

teaching us the meek never

inherit the earth

& the only way to survive

is to fight fire with fire

(Photo by Halanna Halila on Unsplash)