Beth Gordon
THE CRONE ENCHANTS
Don’t wait for the dark: it won’t arrive in time to mask your beastly intent. The way you braid through my pubic hair searching for enlightenment. Instead, you find three conjoined moles in the shape of a crumpled map. Or the shape of three ugly toads on the verge of blossoming into swans: it’s all a matter of shadow & light. One winter morning I stroked my forearms, once lush with dark & silky fur, now shivering & bare. Not smooth like a baby’s skin: smooth like an empty tomato. One morning I plucked three stiff hairs from the chocolate-drop mole on the tip of my chin. There’s no reason for you to know the rhythms of my transformation: my shedding. The places the razor blade cannot reach. You value anything without friction. Lulled into comfort like a drunken bee in a glass of vodka lemonade. Unaware of moment of drowning. Unaware that magic is not a musical jewelry box. Not the woodsman’s heroic ax. It’s the snap of the mousetrap that you didn’t know was there.