Hekate at the Crossroads

Where northern road meets western road
I place my offering,
hoping to appease your demons,
the crossroad ghosts that throng
at dark of moon.
Hekate, the dogs bark,
Hekate, Hekate,
naming you in language
my blood translates.
Belladonna, (I hazard
a euphemism), your eyes
beneath your hooded brow
bright as black berries,
your passage subtle as
monks’ gossip,
I conjure you out of
nightwind and shadow.
“Mother of Sorceries,”
I whisper,
“pass by.”
Yet I know it’s nothing
as innocent as witchcraft
that sets me trembling.
Mistress of the Unknown,
Lady of the Tabula Rasa,
Beldame of Doubts,
Harpy of Regrets!
That dread sound in the dark
is not the sweep of your black robes
but the irrevocable echo
of my footsteps
taking the wrong path.