Preferably, they were not innocent.
Tales of pricking, doomed trials
we would rather deduce that they were, in fact,
in possession of magic.
Girls gather beneath falling pine needles
with the sickle moon to witness
as they brew and recite that which turns the tongue
sharp, eyes dark, sets the priest quivering.
We’d rather it was true.
That they were wicked women,
hiding claws under lace and turning vicious men
into rats and nightshade buds.
Over what they truly were –
guiltless.
Disfigured, learned, old, questioning,
unlucky, unloved, crones and mothers and maidens.
But for it all, they had no enchantments.
After burning at blazing blue stakes
their ash did not cackle, familiars did not claw
at the witchfinder’s door, nor the gale smell
forever foul under the nose of their crimson-handed accusers.
