by Isabelle Spurrier
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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The one guilty witch in Salem has her say.
Shards of accusation pierce the wall of her agony,
Bleeding, pulsing with fury spat from
The title strikes her like the refuse the peasants
Flung at her as she rode chained like a slave
To the bar of the tumbril.
Instinctively, her head flings up, her lips curl
Her eyes flash proudly as she faces the
Censure of the crowd.
They stand behind the gallows.
Of all the fish caught in this net of lies and
Bigoted Christianity, only she is truly snared.
Witch, witch, hidden witch,
Handmaiden of the Devil,
Killer of cows,
Harlot of nocturnal revelry and abandon -
She will die among the falsely-accused,
The chaste, the respected,
The honorable pillars who once supported
This cursed town now walk beside her,
Weeping, to the nooses of their fate.
Only she is justly accused.
Oh, yes, the town is cursed.
Cursed by her enmity, cursed by her hatred,
Soon to be cursed by her death.
Her dark lover calls for it to be
Sanctified by her blood, purified by the
Fluid her body will evacuate as the rope
Strangles her life from her body, this town
Will live on, encumbered by the reputation of
Fraud and malice that constitutes this hysteria.
Her most powerful spell will taint them all.
Blood magic, death magic,
Worked as the noose tightens
As the breeze lifts modest skirts from slender ankles
And whips the hair of the accusers
Like aureoles of smug sanctity.
The girls shriek; the witch looks up and
Her eyes meet those of her accuser.
The witch smiles.
The victims drop. The families scream.
The witch dances the macabre ballet of retribution
While the holy men watch and preen.
All goes to black; the lungs of the witch explode
As does the sky. It is done!
The spell is cast.
The Devil is raised.
The town is cursed.
The witch is dead.