I loved Mad Gruoch the most. All of her poor
impulse control. That hunger for something
like love. Despair. We’d, “feck,” as if some cure
would be found hidden in cresting, crashing
flood tides. It won’t. But in bed her cries
for the spirits to, “unsex,” her—make her
booty thick, came, as she’d cum, with both thighs
quaking. Heartsick, she kept that damn dagger
by the bed. She thought the quip of, “damn spots
on sheets,” droll. Whoadie: she never once walked
in her sleep, but loved my,“milk of human
kindness,” pearled on her breasts. She had her Scots’
unsexed madness. I loved what others mocked:
the witch, the queen, the last highland gorgon.
