A burning today.
The victim is dragged, pulled, jerked
From the rust-dripped tower of iron and stone.
I can see her from my aerial spectator position,
And I think,
This is how she would have looked down on us from Heaven,
If she had not been an ally of Satan.
She is shoved through the throng below and collapses
Onto her sinner’s throne,
And I think,
What constellations must have been shoved into her body
With the puncture of a dirty needle,
And how might she have felt
When they came out with no blood to stain them?
I have heard her cry for four days and nights,
As have the other villagers that suffocate the town,
But they do not say anything.
The lot of wood at her toes ignites.
The villagers roister and shout.
My eyes dare not look to see what my ears hear
As her cries wail in the center of town
Like a cat’s chilling calls,
“I swear, by the Grace of God, I am innocent…!”
…And a hazy fog of smoke hangs low in the air
As the people go back to work,
I descend from my tree-branch lookout
And return to my mother’s empty house.