I am a delirious, cackling witch,
screaming into netherworlds,
and behind closed doors,
into hauntings and the ears
of runaways.
They can’t listen if they’re dead
and dying,
but I can hear the faint beating
of their hearts,
and their resolute moanings,
dripping with immortal songs,
so I keep relishing the sound
of my own voice and the feel
of my own skin.
I don’t know why I
fall apart in your arms
like a trained tiger biting
her master,
while the flattened pine tree glares
at me.  I don’t know why that
tree hates me so much.
It has never even asked me
my name.