Baby-witch, <br />my daughter, <br />my worship of the Goddess <br />alone <br />condemns you to the fire. . . <br /> <br />I blow upon <br />your least fingernail <br />& it flares cyclamen & rose. <br />I suck flames from your ears. <br />I touch your perfect nostrils <br />& they, too, flame gently <br />like that pale rose <br />called 'sweetheart'. <br /> <br />Your eyelids are tender purple <br />like the base of the flame <br />before it blues. <br /> <br />O child of fire, <br />O tiny devotee of the Goddess- <br /> <br />I wished for you <br />to be born a daughter <br />though we know <br />that daughters <br />cannot but be <br /> <br />born for burning <br />like the fatal <br />tree.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/baby-witch/
