1.
You could have been
a school marm,
or married to a
lighthouse keeper, but
you’re like me. You
know the occult.
The Black Magick’s
in deep.
I see it in your
measured movements,
your carefully
repeated refrains.
I feel it flowing
from
the corn husk doll
you made
with bits of clothes
and hair.
2.
A boy
on the town
outskirts caught a crow,
and buried the bird
in dirt,
the knob of black
head
barely above ground.
He stepped back to
hurl stones.
Caw.
A fling glanced,
a bit of chipped
beak.
And you appeared,
rescued the bird,
carried the exhumed
body
back to your home in
the wood.
You warmed the crow
by the fire,
filled his belly
with steaming juices
simmering in your
black pan.
Slowly, new life
filled the bird;
you were careful
about your work.
The boy’s body
you made to fit
in a hollowed out
oak.
3.
In the village,
girls are hacking
green goo from the
lung, trying vainly
to expel the evil
wracking their little bodies.
The doctor is
desperate,
the church leaders
are at a loss.
The girls’ father
grows tired
of waiting for an
end
to the
illness.
Accusations fly like
witches.
4.
I mirror you on
night treks,
leaves
breathing
in black
trees.
You visit the
dancers,
the housewives and
merchants
swaying in the soft
breeze.
Moon slumps heavy on
the gallows.
5.
Outside, the village
fractures,
false witness,
execution in vogue.
I’m not dead yet,
you’ve seen to that.
I’ll stay until they
come for us.
I’ve given my word.
In here we’re safe,
door barred, kettle
in the flames, you
hunched over a good
book,
and me on my perch:
quickeyed,
feathers like tar.
