Becoming Light by Erica Jong Page A

& the passing of all things—for from this flux
    I know your blessings flow.

To the Horned God
    The extinct stars
    look down
    on the centuries
    of the horned God.
    From the dark recesses
    of the Caverne
    des Trois Frères
    in Ariège,
    to the horned Moses
    of Michelangelo,
    in Rome,
    from the Bull of Minos
    & his leaping dancers
    poised on the horns
    of the dilemma…
    From Pan
    laughing & fucking
    & making light
    of all devils,
    to the Devil himself,
    the Man in Black,
    conjured by
    the lusts of Christians…
    From Osiris
    of the upper &
    lower kingdoms,
    to the Minotaur of azure Crete
    & his lost labyrinth…
    From Cernunnos
    to Satan—
    God of dark desires—
    what a decline
    in horny Gods!
    O for a goat to dance with!
    O for a circle of witches
    skyclad under the horned moon!
    Outside my window
    hunters are shooting deer.
    Thus has your worship sunk.
    O God with horns,
    come back.
    O unicorn in captivity,
    come lead us out
    of our willful darkness!
    Come skewer the sun
    with your pointed horns,
    & make the cave,
    the skull, the pelvic arch
    once more
    a place of light.

Figure of the Witch
    Witch-woman,
    tall, slender,
    Circe at her loom
    or murderous Medea,
    Joan at her tree,
    listening to voices
    in the rustling of the leaves,
    like the rustling of the flames
    which ignited
    her deciduous life…
    Witch-woman,
    burning goddess,
    every woman bears
    within her soul
    the figure of the witch,
    the face of the witch,
    beautiful & hideous,
    hidden as the lips
    of her cunt,
    open as her open eyes,
    which see the fire
    without screaming
    as she & the tree, her mother,
    are joined again,
    seared,
    united,
    married as a forest
    marries air,
    only by its burning,
    only by its rising
    in Demeter’s flaming hands,
    only by its leaping
    heavenward
    in a single
    green
    flame.

Baby-Witch
    Baby-witch,
    my daughter,
    my worship of the Goddess
    alone
    condemns you to the fire…
    I blow upon
    your least fingernail
    & it flares cyclamen & rose.
    I suck flames from your ears.
    I touch your perfect nostrils
    & they, too, flame gently
    like that pale rose
    called “sweetheart.”
    Your eyelids are tender purple
    like the base of the flame
    before it blues.
    O child of fire,
    O tiny devotee of the Goddess—
    I wished for you
    to be born a daughter
    though we know
    that daughters
    cannot but be
    born for burning
    like the fatal
    tree.

How to Name Your Familiar
    When the devil brings him,
    like a Christmas puppy,
    examine his downy fur & smell
    his small paws for the scent
    of sulphur.
    Is he a child of hell?
    O clearly those soft brown eyes
    speak volumes
    of deviltry.
    O surely those small pink teats
    could suckle witches.
    O those floppy ears
    hear only the devil’s hissing.
    O that small pink tongue
    will lick & lick at your heart
    until only Satan may
    slip in.
    A fuzzy white dog?
    Name him Catch.
    A little black kitten?
    She is Jamara .
    A tiny brown rabbit?
    Call her Pyewackett.
    Beware, beware—
    the soft, the innocent,
    the kingdom of cuddly ones—
    All these
    expose you to the jealous tongues
    of neighbors’ flames,
    all these
    are the devil’s snares!
    Familiar familiars—
    there is hellfire lurking
    in the softest fur,
    brimstone in the pinkest tongue,
    damnation everlasting
    in a purr .

Her Broom, or the Ride of the Witch
    My broom
    With its tuft of roses
    beckoning at the black,
    with its crown of thistles,
    prickling the sky,
    with its carved crescents
    winking silverly
    at Diana,
    with its thick brush
    of peacock feathers
    sweeping the night,
    with its triangle
    of glinting fur.
    I ride
    over the roofs
    of doom.
    I ride
    while he thinks me safe
    in our bed.
    My forehead
    he thinks that scraggly
    other broom,
    my hips that staff,
    my sex that stump
    of blackthorn
    & of twine.
    Ah, I will ride
    over the skies—
    orange as apricots
    slashed red
    with pomegranate clouds—
    He will think me safe in our bed.
    He will think I fear
    such fabulous
    flight.
    It is his bed I fear!
    I will burn the clouds
    with my marvelous