“All witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which is in women insatiable”—
typical, my petals curled all snail in shell
I fit the orange moon between two fingers;

So what unfurls,
the crafty spools of bloodspent yarn?
or something wooden scarecrowed to my back?

Which is in women—
no boundary, no binary, no satiation
soft phallic stalks tucked tender under polyester

What is sated, my tongue dragged along the ground,
hands hiss spirals of electric stove;
I fit the orange moon beneath my lids

I want to scare you—
eyes dark alleys, serrated teeth—
Dip my daily bread in wormwood wine and Dr. Pepper—
my stomach growls—as if anything was satiable

Woman calls corners, erodes corners
carnal as qualifier, as if anything was otherwise
carnal woman sits astride
she bristles
she squats above a sheen of pearly shell

All witchcraft comes from what infers—
Venus at the spinning wheel,
runes scratched hard into my sugar-heart

I want you exhausted—
lounged forever on my island
interred brick for cat for brick so

               Open wide, it’s the season for it,
the orange moon chorded back
into my navel, lust
wrapped snug around my neck.

Elizabeth Theriot grew up in Louisiana and earned her undergraduate degree from University of New Orleans. She currently lives in Tuscaloosa, where she is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama. Elizabeth works with the Black Warrior Review as Nonfiction Editor and with the program as Assistant to the Director. Her publications can be found online in Tinderbox, Requited, Pretty Owl, and Alyss, forthcoming in Crab Fat Magazine and Rogue Agent, and in print in the Mississippi Review.