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 Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity.
For centuries, the air was full of witches Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe, as they flew over rooftops blessing & cursing their kind.
We banished & burned them making them smoke in the throat of god; we declared ourselves "enlightened.
" "The dark age of horrors is past," said my mother to me in 1952, seven years after our people went up in smoke, leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.
The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender & green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.
O let us not go sheepishly clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches sucked heavenward by the Goddess' powerful breath & whistling, whistling, whistling on our beautiful brooms.

by Erica Jong
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