Bring back the cackle, the sharp broken cry of a hen after laying,
harsh laughter that gets to the root of the matter. The witch is a rackle

woman, strongheaded, strongboned, her laughter as bone broth
for raised hackles. The cackle is catching: may giggles ripple.

Clap back for the curves of the body, the folds of the belly
moving with gravity, the outward and downward curve of the thighs

left over from that last baby. Adore the enormous belly
of the mannish mother. Bring back the cackle, nursemaid

of pain-free sleep. Cackle as action, cackle as proper name.
Mutter kisses into mud. Between your hips is a twinned crystal:

reach for that macle and rise, riding your broomstick
of light. You won’t fall if you don’t look down.

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