Threshold

by Deborah Walker

A howling dog,

piercing the solitude

with musical undulations.

A door red-marked with warning,

even though the Great Morality is now dead.

A jar on the threshold,

full of unctuous oils.

Fingers tracing the etched sigils.

Scenting garlic, aconite,

belladonna, mandrake.

An un-resistible invitation to

anoint the wetness of a mouth

with witches’ ointment.

Crossing the threshold where

spinning threads stretch

in the in-between spaces.

Raw wool into water.

Swelling fibres.

Water staining with

the accumulation of a life

Hecate

waiting beyond the gate,

weaving the bereft fibres of a mind

into the weft of new cloth.

The fabric as soft as newborn skin.

I praise her name,

I will anoint myself

again and again.

Drench the fabric of my memory in her oils

until they come for me and burn that cloth to ash.