A friend posted a link to this on Facebook – I thought the poem was much too good to lose amongst FBs wretched algorithms.
Baba Yaga, the crone, a figure beyond the expectations and demands of society, reminds us of the freedom we have, and the power if we choose to exercise it.
This is a prayer for Baba Yaga. This is a prayer for Resistance.
This is a prayer for the magic of chicken feet, the heat of old hates, the way old bones hurt. This is a prayer for Resistance.
This is a prayer for hat knitters, sign-carriers, Congress-callers. Old women make up the Resistance.
This is a prayer for casserole-bakers, newsletter-writers, nuisances. Old women make up the Resistance.
This is a prayer for phone-bankers, neighborhood-canvassers, early-voters. Old women make up the Resistance.
When the Moon is full, I call to Her.
I bring coals for Her oven. I bring flour, to cover Her tracks. I bring paprika salve for Her old, sore joints.
I bring a list of complicit women. I bring a doll poked with pins and bound with vines. I bring a bottle of ancient anger.
“Come, Baba Yaga,” I say. “Come find me alone in the woods.”
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