Brewing

It is

In black pots

Boiling over each night,

And I tend to it

Stirring that twisted form in circles

Skimming the matter gathering on the thing,

That grows like a strange flower eager to bloom

And my hands linger at the beginning

Of this secret and wicked birth,

To cradle my concocted child

And nurse it harshly

With cold phials,

Until it

Screams.