Look back. No thirteen sisters. No coven.
No high priest. Just you with your spring follies

at the farm house. Perhaps you did summon
him: one more demon, kid stuff, keen to please.

Perhaps you two found purchase propped against
the wall. Brick patterns on your backside, skirt

rucked up, hair all undone – until you sensed
strain, like your husband’s porn: watch mommy squirt.

You still love men who ooze delinquency.
Men and monsters. You called. Lust breeds mischief

when we’re alone; rutting near walls, mazy
hedgerows, fallow fields. It’s still not enough.

Called and summoned. You’re starved for rough magic,
for all that’s uncanny, fell and phallic.