mama always told me
that my hips were not made
for me, but that child neither of us yet
knew. i guess she pretended not to see
my carmine colored hair,
like the apples in her sullen pies,
disapproving though they seemed
of their own tempting shade.
she never added sugar,
and only enough fruit necessary
to cajole the will to rise
from that lazy yeast.

but she had never owned
my bright, desire-dyed hair
(not that she would have shared
had it been hers to give,
whispering embarrassed hisses to her
own belly, suppressing the dominance
of any traits not suited for domesticity).

my father, a nameless man,
smothered in her earthy caves and
vanquished by a fear of the cyclic moon
and rolling pins, branded me before he sunk
back into quicksand silence. i think
this fire hair of mine
was the only way he ever burned her.

i matured in flames, skin hot like
the warmth emanating from the stakes
that devoured Joan alive, the rest of her
witch sisters a blazing scream in the darkness
behind and in front of them, full of
hidden women with feasting, jealous eyes
in dark, conservative dresses.

my hips do not belong to children, mama,
but to kings.
a woman could rule an empire
with hips like mine, luminous and swaying.
i could dance on embers and not feel the heat,
because my body aches for fire.

mama couldn’t save me from immolation, but then
i suppose you never can get stone from flames.