we will not burn any longer

Marigrace Angelo, Issue 04

they called you a witch, once,
hung you in the town square
for having an opinion.

they claimed you sank ships,
spread famine,
conspired to kill kings.

they crushed your fingers,
cut your hair, deprived you of sleep
searched your body for blemishes

until you told them
what they wanted to hear
to get them to stop touching you.

you, who have learned to heal their sick
and deliver their babies,
to care for their animals, and cook their food,

were left to sink
at the bottom of the river,
dresses full of stones.

and in the rush of the current
sometimes we can hear you whisper:
a warning, a curse, a wish, a prayer

three hundred years later,
they are still hunting
and we are still running.

still surviving, still resisting,
persisting in spite of those
who call us witches.