Hagios, Greek, holy wisdom.
Hags are hags.
No gainsaying them.
No going to Merriam-Webster,
Random House, American Heritage,
or the O.E.D for light
on the etymon of their logos.
There is no finding them
in any ordinary way.
Colonizers of their names,
they fly flat out hard-toothed,
and when they come to ground,
build iris blue fires
and accomplish new worlds.
Hound them however you will,
they bristle hog’s hair
before you’re halfway to where
they stir hot lead and spittle
in cauldrons that ring
like temple bells at twilight.
They are chiming the light
of the birth of women,
and drawing you down
to the feared unknown
where, if you cast off masks
and pseudo-identities,
you’ll find the cave of yourself
filled to its mouth
with hag-truth speech,
bliss to a newborn soul.
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