The foolish witch speaks with a drunk tongue.
Barley malt is best for bleeding, she says, and for lies.

Let me hear with my tongue
taste the words in my ear
where they are foreign,
unwelcome.
Like Gretl in the cottage
mouth gripped in sweetness.

The wise witch speaks with a drunk tongue.
Wisdom is barley-born and full of secrets.

In principio erat verbum.1

Before the word was the breath
and before that
the mystery of silence—
the dazzling pre-murmur of holiness.

My stiff tongue cannot move, cannot curl.
I have killed speech and am happy for it.

When I speak
it is in tongues,
and the flame of knowledge
burns above my head.

The laughing girl loves the flame
she licks the air with delight.
But this is not as it will be:
her wheelbarrow tongue
will drive the earth fallow.

Let me show you:
the space from palate to tongue
is big enough to hold a mouse
or a child
if it does not struggle.

In caro verbum factum est.2
Verbum erat carus.
Erat verbum in caro.3

The tongue has its own wisdom
moves as it pleases
a mouse hording secrets.
The barley juice makes it tractable.

Drink deep, my child,
so you may speak.