THE HAG

 

The literary hag, a few years ago,

emerged from the brothel of communism

with a series of awards and a few watery

books, but having weathered coups d’état,

committees, and other "educational" actions—

she gratified the Securitate generals

with lyrical-sexual ecstasies

and the heads of state who visited our country.

Even the dogs were charmed by her legs.

Upon retirement, she refused to leave the public eye,

and the Securitate generals—whose

socks she mended and whose eggs she hatched—

tied an invisible thread to her face

without her knowing, and they lead her around

various universities where she gives concerts.

First, she howls like a nasty little bitch,

then shifts to a kind of hiccupping

broody-hen clucking that stirs wonder

and admiration—the Freemasons strike

their staffs on the floorboards,

while the transgenders beat their tambourines,

and she is very happy without knowing why,

her clucking coinciding with her "little girl" talk.

Afterward, she sits perched atop a museum-prison,

hatching God-knows-what plans that make you

want to send her to hell.