my grandmother blacksmith in her workshop

Why pray to the gods when nothing is spared
before faithless thorns? little pricks? That itch
none can scratch, save my Harmaa, the gray-haired
blacksmith, who forged Krig Haxa, the War Witch,
for me. I learned my trade from a gypsy
butcher, Navalha. I keep my heart-stone
with a cat-girl named Nuu-Nuu (a cutey-
cutey war machine) Now you know the Crone,
Mother and Maid I share my synth-blood with.
For blood, even in a white-boy machine,
is all I have. I’m a very pale male.
Keep faith for me, my dear Mama Blacksmith
and my Na, who cuts rot from the bone clean,
and my chrome Nuu, with her cat-ears and tail.