Witchcraft Abigail Langmead
Bridget’s hands were crossed behind her back With ropes coiled around them, like the snakes The villagers whispered she spoke to in the night. There was a hand wrapped across Anita’s shoulder With nails digging into her skin, feeling like iron. And they called her a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Thrust forward down cobbled streets Joan closed her eyes as she approached. Everyone shouted, blurring into nonsense words Primal roaring, and burning rage. Alexandria shuttered, hiding in history’s halls Believing her work would be ending and beginning, Because she wasn’t alone, even if she felt it As the wolfpack tried to pull her apart. Those are the woman we were born from, The names are a reminder of our coven’s name. Those are the women we remember in every moment; We are ungrateful for our newfound gifts. They expected magic to be the devil’s work When to me, embracing myself feels like bliss. 3
