The Sister's Stew

A drop of blood to rot the soul,

a tiny bit of ginger to bring it back,

frog's eyes to see each blemish you

bring, fox's fur to bait the sin,

The simmering sewage pours out

of beakers with a hissing and

sizzling screech as crickets crawl

out and stiff fingers reach up

towards red smoke too thick to breathe.

The sisters don't much mind the smell

as long as the rythmic bubbling goes

on. In the darkness a twisted cackle

sneaks into the room and floats

alongside the rat's blood. It's a quart

more until the middle of the night

and four blocks away from a burning

cross downtown. Their potions only

make non-believers laugh,

until they choke. Strangely the

scriptures don't slide under the doors

like the maggots.