The machines were gone, and so were those who worked them. A single high-backed chair stood like a throne In all that empty space. I was on the floor making myself comfortable For a long night of little sleep and much thinking.
An empty birdcage hung from a steam pipe. In it I kept an apple and a small paring knife. I placed newspapers all around me on the floor So I could jump at the slightest rustle. It was like the scratching of a pen, The silence of the night writing in its diary.
Of rats who came to pay me a visit I had the highest opinion. They’d stand on two feet As if about to make a polite request On a matter of great importance.
Many other strange things came to pass. Once a naked woman climbed on the chair To reach the apple in the cage. I was on the floor watching her go on tiptoe, Her hand fluttering in the cage like a bird.
On other days, the sun peeked through dusty windowpanes To see what time it was. But there was no clock, Only the knife in the cage, glinting like a mirror, And the chair in the far corner Where someone once sat facing the brick wall.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."