ESBAT


Eight bodies dancing through
a rough circle separating
a four room apartment from 
a low altar crowded with

tall candles burning in
brass claws illuminating
wands stained deep with
body oil and sweat while

mulled wine splashes in
silver plated chalices and
sea salt in an oyster dish
does nothing much at all beside

the ceramic bowl consuming
black moist earth from Scotland
below smoke trails loitering
around a Mandarin censor

Eight dancers spinning through
reflections from a prism
brushing faces leaping from
a deck of worn waxed cards

spread before a dog-eared
Book of Shadows kneeling
before statues gently yellowing
of Venus and Pan rescued from

obscure little junk shops
to lead us in silence in
the forever slow canticle
of heaven's first prayer

on two wrinkled yards of
antique silk covering a
low crowded altar in the
center of this magic circle

Eight scarlet robes blushing
up naked skin from hoods so
floppy that somebody whispers
where is the big bad wolf

down to hems caressing
the Persian rugs enfolding
sixteen feet fidgeting
unseen by the bone white cat

blithely sauntering through
the borders of our sanctuary
as though she were born to
this world between worlds

but house cats have always
managed to stay just
enough out of phase with
the species that feeds them

Seven pairs of eyes gazing upon
Mindy's slender bronze limbs
stretching out like an elm tree
making love to midnight wind

pulling her athame which
really is a boot knife and
that is where she keeps it
when she's wearing any boots

but now she gently strikes it
against a winged chalice
three times she lets it
ring in the new born moon

dancing feet stilled like
our lips and all our musings
to the sounding of an echo
of far hunting dreams

Frozen dancers crossing
their arms upon their hearts
spidery fingers opening in
devotion to our Gods rising

from the singing of the spheres
without a clock in sight until
muscles seize and burn and
prick the hide of patience

for this is now the part
that nobody likes so much
not that we lack devotion
we just need to learn more

but this has been a tradition
for as long as this good circle
has kept the tradition of
having these traditions

A circle dancing slowly for
we've all the merry night long
for singing of the spirits and
spinning a Cone of Power over

the Great City's tangling souls
and just maybe loosening the
knots strangling somebody's
tangled-up Great City heart

then plenty time for collapsing
and draining all the bottles
we've hidden beneath the altar
and finishing the sacred cookies

until the dawn comes breaking
for this month has decreed us
The Lady's Blessed Coven
of Witches Without Day Jobs

But now eight dancers facing
one another's cowled promises
of perfect love and trust and
never quite getting it right

amid the petty bickering of
who has taken to sleeping
with whose ex-magical partner
before whose initiation

but still trading the smiles
and naughty winks and arcane
asides and late hours drinking
coffee stirred with tears that

one finds only among friends
made incestuous by one of
those little secrets that
you just can't write home about 

Salamanders writhing in the
candles and faces lurking in
their shadows and the sultry
waving about of our robes from

the breeze in a closed room
and the musk of anticipation
begins pouring ambrosia over
our dried lips and tongues and

now Athena starts howling in
a single soprano crystal note
while Redwolf swings his
sword in master strokes and

we all begin swinging aching
arms cutting five pointed stars
through the smoke and scent and
rattle of hidden bones to greet

our Guardians our Watchtowers
our Elemental Spirits our
patient Archangels singing
away the dancing night

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This poem is from On Pagan Roads Copyright © 2004 David Arv Bragi