The Basque Witch Hunts, 1610
A rumble of guttural sounds –
their language is the oldest of the continent.
The inquisitor ogles these women:
he dreams of their tongues,
how they form foamy rollers
to hiss sensual spells
like those crashing over the shore
on the Bay of Biscay.
He’s bewitched by their trilled r, their chirped z,
the way they click their k and g,
their glottis hanging in gaping mouths
when they utter the letter h.
He imagines these sorginak 1
grunting in grottos,
their charms licking the walls.
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