THE DEVIL'S ****

He straps her to the table
before him

(a sacrifice on an altar)

of the Arrogance
of his Ignorance.

Turns to the tools of his trade
neatly & almost piously arranged

on the table
behind him

still stained
with the chicken’s blood

from this morning’s preparation
bubbling in the ***... forgotten now.

He is a masterPricker
as they call his sort about here

half in awe & fear

of the Witchfinder General
and all his kind.

He is angry at her resistance

tears off the ragged burlap shift
that covers her

shaves her
from head to pudenda

examines
her

from top
to toe

with the aid of
a giant magnifying glass

for any blemish or birth mark
(an oddly shaped wart)

that will betray her
in all its innocence

pricking her both
with the long needle and the short

and ahhh...

the birthmark
refuses to bleed.

He smiles at such
an obvious sign.

Her denials
screaming uselessly

against the locked
door of his mind.

but now his fingers
probe

sensitively searching
for the Devil’s ******

concealed within her
to nourish to suckle

her
toad familiar.

And yes how proud he feels

to discover hidden within her
privy shaft

obscured by her
female *****

but not to the
empirical mechanics

of his fingers
probing...probing

as plain as the sun that goes around
this Godly Earth

...the Devil’s ****.

And so, by this fleshly
mark of being

Woman

she is
condemned to be
witch.

And so it is so
in these “the burning years.”

I cry for her
as I reclaim her

from History

(so many thousands of her)

hold them
all

(in their holy terror)

all such suffering
beings

in my arms
in the dawn

of this new
morning

keening
for them

stroking their hair
(closing their eyes)

as tenderly
as if

they were my child.