Mary Ann Mulhern
Mary Ann Mulhern is a teacher and poet in Windsor, Ontario, who publishes with Black Moss Press. The Red Dress, about leaving convent life, received national attention on CBC radio's "Tapestry". Touch the Dead, about her childhood as an undertaker's daughter, was short-listed for the 2007 Acorn-Plantos People's Poetry Award. When Angels Weep (2008), about victims of sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic church, drew more than 400 people to the launch and has received considerable media attention. The following poems are from her new manuscript, "The Naked Witch", about witch hunts in Europe and Salem. She feels these have some sad parallels with the present-day " terrorist hunt", in which some innocent people are imprisoned and tortured-and sometimes die.
released after a year of the rack, the black pit red-hot irons i am released hair scissored short eyes silent grey my body a shadow risen from the grave a witch who passes close on the village road silver rosary tarnished black in the crooked twist of hands tight knot of veins every bead a curse petition of mary easty my hand reaches for a pen paper white as death waiting for my words testament of innocence my accusers shape lies into steps of a courtroom dance spells of the two-faced moon young girls chant names of withered witches hanged from a salem rope knots threaded with thorns i plead for release from the shame of this cell gray rags of my prison dress the judge folds my plea into a lonely scaffold where i can barely stand blots of ink blind the sun every star in a purple sky magic charm in the courtroom a witness says i've sewn a magic charm beneath the skin of my left arm the devil's gift the judge clutches a leather pouch worn around his neck herbs preserved with wax to ward off spells cast from the shine of hair and eyes and lips I smell his potion crushed hawthorn leaves and fruit dark red and green taken from the tree that offers branches high and wide and strong enough for the swing of a wealthy witch her prison gown blown into a blossom tossed over a grave the executioner i watch him loose black tunic bright cross large on his chest he looks up at me silent chained afraid just another witch this man has no fear of an evil eye he is the one who holds magic who strikes fire from flint his mind is a flame that flashes over me radiant as satan's smile gallow's hill my body spins in an april wind lips swollen blue a limp marionette on a hangman's string long after midnight my husband cuts me down carries me to a grave dug deep between distant trees unmarked unmapped a burial without incense or prayer or hymn only one mourner to weep a witch is forbidden to rest in holy ground her bones a desecration evil roots of magic creeping over grass bearing blooms translucent white pure as any rose in paradise |