How I witch 1692

By | 1 May 2019

I bid you prick these thorns
into these women’s likenesses
for they have upset you.

It feels so good to press and twist
into the imprinted wooden faces,
imagining the thorn’s poison
spreading through the bloods’
stream, the women complaining
of pains, then fever, the drips
of sweat forming, bodies falling
to wooden floors, even then
not seeing grime in the cracks
they neglected to scrub away,
clutching at their table legs, their children’s legs
begging for water, finding
the strength to point their crooked fingers
at the house on the edge of town –
‘She did it! It was her –
the witch!’ And me standing there,
a poppet myself, clutching
their mottled likenesses.

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