7pm
Rumour
 was
 loose 
in
 the 
air
hunting
 for
 some
 neck
 to 
land
on.
I
 was 
milking 
the
 cow,
the
 barn
 door
 open
 to 
the
 sunset.

I didn't feel the aimed word hit
and go in like a soft bullet.
I didn't feel the smashed flesh
closing over it like water
over a thrown stone.

I was hanged for living alone
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
tattered skirts, few buttons,
a weedy farm in my own name,
and a surefire cure for warts;

Oh yes, and breasts,
and a sweet pear hidden in my body.
Whenever there's talk of demons
these come in handy.


8pm
The
 rope 
was
 an
 improvisation.
With 
time
 they'd
 have
 thought
 of 
axes
Up
 I
 go 
like
 a
 windfall 
in
 reverse,
a
 blackened 
apple
 stuck 
back
 onto
 the 
tree.

Trussed 
hands,
 rag
 in
 my 
mouth,
a
 flag 
raised 
to
 salute
 the
 moon,

old 
bone‐faced
 goddess,
 old 
original,
 who
 once
 took 
blood
 in 
return
for
 food.

The 
men
 of
 the 
town
 stalk 
homeward,
excited 
by 
their
 show
 of
 hate,

their 
own 
evil
 turned
 inside
 out
 like
 a 
glove,
and
 me
 wearing 
it.


9pm
The bonnets come to stare,
the dark skirts also,
the upturned faces in between,
mouths closed so tight they're lipless.
I can see down into their eyeholes
and nostrils. I can see their fear.

You were my friend, you too.
I cured your baby, Mrs.,
and flushed yours out of you,
Non-wife, to save your life.

Help me down? You don't dare.
I might rub off on you,
like soot or gossip. Birds
of a feather burn together,
though as a rule ravens are singular.

In a gathering like this one
the safe place is the background,
pretending you can't dance,
the safe stance pointing a finger.

I understand. You can't spare
anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl
against the cold,
a good word. Lord
knows there isn't much
to go around. You need it all.


10pm
Well
 God, 
now
 that 
I'm 
up 
here
with 
maybe 
some
time
 to
 kill
away 
from 
the 
daily
fingerwork,
 legwork,
 work
at
 the
 hen
 level,
we
 can 
continue 
our
 quarrel,
the 
one
 about
 free 
will.

Is 
it 
my 
choice 
that
 I'm
 dangling
like
 a 
turkey's
 wattles
 from 
this
more 
than
 in different
 tree?
If
 Nature 
is 
Your 
alphabet,
what 
letter 
is 
this 
rope?

Does 
my 
twisting
 body
 spell
 out
 Grace?
I
 hurt, 
therefore
 I 
am.
Faith,
 Charity,
 and
 Hope
are
 three 
dead
 angels
falling
 like
 meteors
 or
burning 
owls 
across
the
 profound 
blank
 sky
 of
 Your
 face.


12 midnight
My throat is taut against the rope
choking off words and air;
I'm reduced to knotted muscle.
Blood bulges in my skull,
my clenched teeth hold it in;
I bite down on despair

Death sits on my shoulder like a crow
waiting for my squeezed beet
of a heart to burst
so he can eat my eyes

or like a judge
muttering about sluts and punishment
and licking his lips
or the crowd
their own evil turned inside out like a glove,
and me wearing it.

or like a dark angel
whispering to me to be easy
on myself. To breathe out finally.
Trust me, he says, caressing
me. Why suffer?

A temptation, to sink down
into these definitions.
To become a martyr in reverse,
or food, or trash.

To give up my own words for myself,
my own refusals.
To give up knowing.
To give up pain.
To let go.


2am
Out
 of
 my
 mouth 
is
 coming,
 at
 some
distance
 from
 me,
 a
 thin
 gnawing
 sound
which
 you
 could
 confuse
 with 
prayer
 except
 that
praying 
is
 not 
constrained.

Or 
is
 it, 
Lord?
Maybe 
it's 
more
 like 
being
 strangled
than
 I
 once
 thought.

 Maybe 
it's
a
 gasp 
for
 air,
 prayer.
Did
 those 
men
 at
 Pentecost
want
 flames 
to 
shoot 
out
 of 
their 
heads?
Did 
they 
ask 
to 
be 
tossed
on
 the
 ground,
 gabbling
 like 
holy 
poultry,
eyeballs 
bulging?

As
 mine 
are,
 as
 mine
 are.
There 
is 
only
 one
 prayer; 
it
 is
 not
the 
knees
 in 
the
 clean 
nightgown
on 
the
 hooked 
rug
I 
want
 this,
I
 want
 that.
Oh 
far 
beyond.
Call 
it
 Please.

 Call
 it 
Mercy.
Call 
it 
Not 
yet, 
not
 yet,
as 
Heaven
 threatens 
to
 explode
inwards
 in 
fire
 and
 shredded
 flesh,
 and
 the
 angels
 caw.


3am
Wind seethes in the leaves around
me the tree exude night
birds night birds yell inside
my ears like stabbed hearts my heart
stutters in my fluttering cloth
body I dangle with strength
going out of me the wind seethes
in my body tattering
the words I clench
my fists hold No
talisman or silver disc my lungs
flail as if drowning I call
on you as witness I did
no crime I was born I have borne I
bear I will be born this is
a crime I will not
acknowledge leaves and wind
hold onto me
I will not give in


6am
Sun 
comes
 up,
 huge 
and 
blaring,
no 
longer
 a 
simile
 for
 God.
Wrong
 address.

 I've
 been 
out
 there.

Time
 is
 relative,
 let 
me
 tell
 you
I 
have 
lived 
a
 millennium.

I
 would
 like 
to
 say
 my 
hair
 turned
 white
overnight, 
but
 it 
didn't.
Instead 
it 
was 
my 
heart:
 bleached
 out 
like 
meat
 in 
water.

Also, 
I'm 
about
 three
 inches 
taller.
This 
is
 what
 happens
 when
 you
 drift
 in 
space
listening
 to 
the 
gospel
of 
the
 red‐hot
 stars.
Pinpoints 
of
 infinity
 riddle 
my
 brain,
a
 revelation
 of
 deafness.

At
 the
 end
 of 
my 
rope
I 
testify 
to silence.
Don't
 say 
I'm 
not
 grateful.

Most
 will
 have
 only
 one
 death.
I
 will
 have
 two.


8am
When 
they 
came
 to
 harvest 
my
 corpse
 (open 
your 
mouth,
 close
 your 
eyes)
cut
 my 
body 
from
 the 
rope,

surprise,
 surprise:
I
 was
 still 
alive.

Tough 
luck,
 folks,
I
 know
 the 
law:
 you
 can't
 execute 
me 
twice
 for 
the
 same
 thing.

 How 
nice.

I
 fell 
to 
the 
clover, 
breathed 
it
 in,
and
 bared
 my 
teeth
 at 
them
in
 a 
filthy
 grin.
You 
can 
imagine
 how
 that
 went 
over.

Now 
I
 only
 need
 to 
look
out 
at 
them 
through 
my 
sky‐blue 
eyes.
They 
see 
their
 own 
ill 
will
 staring
them 
in
 the 
forehead
and 
turn 
tail

Before,
 I
 was
 not
 a 
witch.
But
 now 
I
 am
 one.


Later
My 
body
 of
 skin 
waxes 
and
 wanes
around
 my
 true
 body,
a
 tender
 nimbus.
I
 skitter
 over
 the 
paths 
and 
fields

mumbling
 to 
myself
 like 
crazy,
mouth
 full
 of 
juicy
 adjectives
and
 purple
 berries.
The 
townsfolk 
dive
 headfirst 
into 
the
 bushes
to
 get
 out 
of
 my
 way.

My 
first
 death 
orbits
 my 
head,
an
 ambiguous 
nimbus,
medallion
 of 
my 
ordeal.
No 
one 
crosses 
that 
circle.

Having 
been
 hanged
 for
 something
I
 never
 said,
I 
can 
now 
say 
anything 
I
 can 
say.

Holiness 
gleams
 on 
my 
dirty
 fingers,
I 
eat flowers
 and
 dung,
two 
forms 
of
 the 
same
 thing, 
I 
eat 
mice
and
 give 
thanks,
 blasphemies
gleam
 and 
burst
 in 
my 
wake
like 
lovely 
bubbles.
I 
speak
 in 
tongues,
my 
audience 
is 
owls.

My 
audience 
is
 God,
because
 who 
the
 hell
 else
 could
 understand
 me?
Who
 else
 has
 been 
dead
 twice?

The 
words 
boil
 out
 of 
me,
coil
 after
 coil 
of 
sinuous
 possibility.
The 
cosmos 
unravels 
from
 my 
mouth,
all
 fullness, 
all 
vacancy.