The Hag
I wish I were a hag of the bog.
Alabaster skin, lank, dark hair,
that billows out from my head,
whether or not there is wind to move it so.
Long fingernails, that look like talons,
sharp enough to slice. And sinuous limbs
untroubled by vines that twist and choke
so many others. I wish I could float above
the quagmire, my feet never getting stuck
in the mud. No worry of drowning there,
in the swamp, alongside the masses.
I wish I could collect herbs to make tonics,
and poisons, for whatever might ail me.
Collect the skeletons of birds, and toads, and fish,
to use in my rituals, the ones where
I dance naked under the light of the moon
and chant and shriek loudly and shrilly,
untroubled about whom might hear.
I wish I were a hag of the bog.
Feared and respected, and largely left alone.
Villagers only making the arduous journey
to my hut when they need a healing potion,
or a spell for mending, or a baby stilled
within a womb. They ask these things
of me, with eyes upon their feet, too
frightened to meet my gaze, ashamed of
their requests, but also thankful for
my ability to help them in their need.
I am talked about in whispers in the backrooms
of their taverns, or in their haylofts. Never openly
acknowledged, but universally required.
I do not mind. They leave me be, I prefer this to the clamor
of their streets and shops, to the messiness
of their lives. I prefer my friends; the raven, and toad
and fox, and fish. The lamprey and the silence of the
swamp. The stillness of my soul,
the black cauldron, and the insects that
sing in the night, yet do not bite me.
I move through the bog, alone
and unafraid. The orchids
bend down to kiss my alabaster skin
as I float towards my hut, clothed in
the light of the moon.
pauliannucilli 