We were the daughters
Of the witches
Who could set fire to skeletons
Of the ones who wanted
To castrate and crush
The petals of our flowering youth
To get their hands fragrant.
We played this ‘fire-game’
But not all the time,
We had our moments of transcendence too,
We also had licked the sweat of the men,
Who could brew us coca beans
Who could feed us bread,
We also had our territories of peace,
With our men in our land of significance,
We were not witches but the daughters
Of the ones who once had gotten bewitched
Not because they wanted to, but they were asked to.
Unlike our mothers we knew the meanings of tenderness and love-pecks,
We could let our lovers use their bones
On our paper-flesh as pens,
We could sip the stories from their lips
But we also knew, where and when,
To leave them deserted with their strangled isolation
Haunting their no-more-lovely faces.
We were the daughters of the witches
They forgot to burn in the wombs of their mothers.
