In a public place they are plying the dry wood,
A thicket of hate under a pot lid
A woman in a trial crawling like a worm
In a dirt cage;
A judge and jury — small white puritans with red tongues.

Hysteria begins here, mouth of a door,
Gavel for a witch;
Rope for a hanging.
Mother of beetles, ten fingers stitching wolf’s teeth
For the devil’s fetus;
They pelt her with stones on the way to the after-hell,
Her swaddled body is thrown in a burying ground.

Dead witches eyes sweet,
They’re lost
They’re lost.
Mouth’s sewn shut to teach the truth;
This is a town worn with a hat of the righteous,
Yet, the witches’ holes are
Crying their location.

Bones in a bowl of shadows;
Crawling for repentance; jostled by the good book,
They can do no further harm;
This is a town where witches are mended,
Importunate women;
They drink from the darkness like candles;
Executed for falling out of the divine light.

Copyright © 03/02/18 lance sheridan®