Salem, 1692

Goddesses whisper in the woods
and claim to know what I have known
of the midnight constellations
sunken beneath moss-soaked wood.
Father does not hear them speak,

nor feel the Solstice burning weak;
Mother cannot see the figures dance as
strands blur and glide over bleached
cotton and dewy skin, un-trapped
from tightly-wound knots and coils.

My sister cannot hear the Maiden
sounds of feet and water clapping,
nor will she ever feel the icy smooth
surface of an incandescent pebble

beneath her earth-crusted heels. Even
my brother does not feel the spirits
shriek and laugh deep within his
bones, as they proclaim she was
drowned by covetous nymphs.

The preacher vows that he will find
what we’ve done and where we hide;
that he will hear, see, and feel. But
they whisper in twilight jade to me
alone, as I march– smiling– home.


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