A friend, Clif Mason, is a poet and his works are usually a bit somber. He gave me permission to post his latest here. This is a bit dark so if you are not in the mood, skip it.
The Witch’s Interrogation
They crushed paper into her mouth & opened her veins to find ink. When they shoved a sharpened twig into her hand & said “Write,” it was obvious they wanted her confession. The only crimes she knew were theirs.
Five hours rang out like five bullets. Steel concussed on steel, a blue tantrum, & her eyes wept liquid smoke. When she stopped beating the broken gong of her chest, she was able to sip milk from her brainpan.
She wrote the scarlet blood smear of her witness, the black carbon stain of her account.
They didn’t expect words like C-4, like nitroglycerin, like depth charges. They didn’t expect words like swarms of murder hornets, like murmurations of mad starlings, shark frenzy, rabid dogs.
They shouted, furious as a gasoline fire. It didn’t matter. She deliquesced into a cloud, streamed under doors, rained into the river. No longer alone, she flowed in clear currents away.
