Evensong
How could I have known my husband’s death would leave me begging? That a fist full of children would call me witch and be believed? My mother and her mother taught me willow bark eases childbirth and lavender strengthens the stomach. I saved the Putnam girl from fever and now she screams when I approach. Mother, is it you or My Lord who has forsaken me? They are hanging me at sunset. That crowded anger will flush from the climb up Gallows Hill. But once their fever cools and their faces match the faded sky a hush will be born. They will watch the pendulum of my body mark their remaining time.
Soon I will be was. And lifting, over this town, fields of stone, roads muddy and climbing, mulberry to rot. Moving, I move. The birds call high and hard. I follow them. Trees rustle.
Melanie Figg is the author of the award-winning poetry collection, Trace, named one of the seven Best Indie Poetry Books of the year by Kirkus Reviews. She’s won many grants and awards for her writing, including a Fellowship with the National Endowment for the Arts. Her poems and essays have appeared in dozens of journals including Hippocampus, RUMPUS, Colorado Review, Nimrod, and others. A certified professional coach with an MFA, Melanie works remotely with writers. Online at www.melaniefigg.net.
