PS Cottier

Thirteen reasons for burning her

One irrevocable stutter from left-handed mouth,
forever failing to birth ovate words.
Seven skin tags, crooked nipples of flesh,
sprouting from her sordid shoulders.
(For the Devil to suck from behind
for his greater convenience. Many teated sow.)
Three companions inside her cottage:
wrinkly goat, grey cat (black in smoked disguise), inexplicable toad.
Fluency with rare herbs, no flustered stutter there.
And a bovate of best land, just beside the river.

P.S. Cottier

From The Glass Violin

Other (hopefully more bewitching and seasonally appropriate) poems can be found at the Tuesday poem hub.