Memories of Macbeth

Skylarks, persimmon seeds,

blood on the hands:

Three Witches stirring

and stirring the fresh

newt eyes,

round and round

they watch the boils

and toils and troubles.

***

Darkened forest

with a new moon rising,

smoke omens and smoke augury:

the king dethroned

and the chattering

consuming the throne room.

The wailing of the queen;

the wailing under the sword.

***

The witches stir and stir;

a string ready to cut,

a string between scissors,

the fate between scissors,

the witches keep stirring

and stirring, and Lady Macbeth

lets down her long, unkempt hair,

her white gown with red stains.

The nurse

catches the baby in her hands:

the umbilical cord cut.

Scissors, scissors

in her hands. The infant

screams for air, the colors

of this world too dim, the sounds

too ethereal. The scent

too vinegary. Blood

on her hands. Lady Macbeth

blood on her hands. Blood

she can't wash off. Blood

down her sides and in her hair.

And the witches

keep stirring the contents,

the strings in the black cauldron.

The smoke signals

fetching her husband,

the dawning, the longing

for a new king. The new moon

rises. A man

before

Three Witches

and their pot of fate.