My mother was the Furies’ priestess, sworn
To guard our coven’s secret. Scryer’s sight
Her gift and bane, she’d praise the runes, yet mourn
The pain their glyphs foretold. Each full-moon night
She’d lead the rites, conferring lupine might
To all her clan—save me. Lycanthropy
Evaded me, a shame I bore despite
My honored matron’s fame. No, neither plea
Nor sorcery could wrest the beast from me.
But now that Man can chart the moon, my dearth
Has proven more a boon. While she-wolves flee
Man’s killing spree, unseen, I walk the earth.
No longer does a were-witch reign as queen
O’er maids who hail our heavenly Selene.
Lupita lopes across the wolfsbane bed—
I’d thought our sacred dame long dead. For Man
Slew Furies all en masse: bade sickles shred
Our enclave’s grass and torches scorch our clan
To ash before we’d chance to thwart his plan.
A hunter tired of smiting timid game
Inclines his bow toward Mother’s frame. No ban
Nor statute stays his hand. Her foe takes aim.
Lupita falls. Enraged, I howl her name,
My witch’s heart at last enflamed. I clasp
Her runic tome and chant, renouncing claim
To mortal ties my lupine mind can’t grasp.
Selene, if you’ll gleam full tonight, I’ll kill
To make what Man’s done right. Praise be your will.
Mindy Watson is formal verse poet who holds an MA in Nonfiction Writing from the Johns Hopkins University. Her poetry has appeared in venues including Eastern Structures, Lonesome October Lit, Poetry Porch, the Quarterday Review, Star*Line, Snakeskin, Think Journal, and many more. You may read her work at: https://mindywatson.wixsite.com/poetryprosesite.