poor woman.

Poor woman,
You crush your herbs like necks
Slow and deliberate
As if the scent might smother the screaming.

Poor woman,
You light your candles
Scribble spells
As if the earth can hear you.

Poor woman,
You press your hands to the wounds of men
Caused by such beasts.
As if you did not bleed first.

Poor woman.
You let madness glow under a crescent moon
Yearning for its fullness
As if it pulls in your tide.

But pour, woman,
Medicine into the sea,
Salt into the soil,
Blood onto the altar

As if your life depends on it.