Once When I Was a Witch
I heard a man say we should be burned,
we should all be drowned like kittens
or pushed off cliffs.
There were a lot of women watching then
without saying much –
maybe afraid, maybe jealous.
The yellow moon shone, a single wink
and the wind made a dark moaning sound.
It could have been yesterday. Once I was a waitress
and then men got drunk and pushed me around
and I went in the back and spat in their food.
Once I was a wife, beaten, sitting by a river,
thinking of throwing myself in.
Once I was a mother, and buried my infant underground.
Once, I was all the Marys – prostitute, prophet,
mother of God and typhoid vector.
If you’ve seen any paintings you can see
they have the same hands, white,
with a shadow like blood. Once when I was a poet
I had a lot of men put their hands
on me and prescribe me poisons.
I had to drink so many before I learned
the spells to turn my blood silver,
my body gold. Once when I was a princess,
men killed each other to save me, but left me
alone on a throne on a glass mountain. Only
the unicorn ever understood. We spoke the same
language. Once I was an old woman and they accused
me of saying too much, of getting too smart,
they asked me to move and I wouldn’t
so they put me in prison.
Once I was a prisoner and I went on a hunger strike
and died of force-feeding by prison guards.
This is not a fiction. Once I was a ghost
who visited the grounds of prisons
that always smelled like blood, orphanages
with secret bones. That same moon above,
I noticed, saying nothing, passing no judgement,
as sinister clouds passed over its face.
A Conspiracy of Ravens Began
Do you remember the night before you died,
the way the moon was a silver sliver, the wind
pushed the dead leaves along the ground?
And the ravens sat outside my window,
the way their dark wings shadowed everything.
The smell was of something burning, chemical
and acrid. I used to sing songs about flying
away. I used to be a believer. Do you remember
that? I used to be bright as a flower.
The night you died, what did you used to say to me,
that you loved my nose, that you’d follow me anywhere.
And now I cannot follow. It’s so dark
I cannot follow the shadows outside my window.
The moon is almost nothing. Do you remember
the last thing you said, the way the ravens
outside were screaming your name,
the way the whole earth shook beneath us,
the way the night arrived as if it would never end?
–
Jeannine Hall Gailey served as the second poet laureate of Redmond, Washington. She’s the author of five books of poetry, including her most recent, Field Guide to the End of the World (Moon City Press, 2016).Her work has appeared in journals such as American Poetry Review and Ploughshares.