celiabreslin

[1]

“Ritual”

These men got what they deserved.

She looks down at the fresh grave,
breathing the sour odors of wet earth
and the recent sweat of the diggers.
Dressed in mourners’ black, naturally.
Far from the smoky lanterns of the street,
the meat roasting on the stoves,
and the violence and money
men waste on brief entertainment.

She’s the youngest; her sisters and
mother always know where she is.

In front of her, three short steps beyond
the dark soil, is the wooden cross
with the neatly carved name.
The carpenter here does fine work.

She rubs a swollen lip. It will heal
and fade like the others, and this one
will not leave a scar. They all,
mother and sisters, bear record
on their skin from men like this one.

These men deserved what they got.

You’re the one that makes it right,
her sisters tell her. You were born knowing
where to cut, they admire. Our angel
sent to protect us. Small and quick,
shadow-to-shadow, under dim windows,
too clever to be seen, the deed done
swiftly by a small hand and a sharp
thin blade where no one looks.

And when suspicion arises?
“She’s the baby, we don’t let her out.”
“We always know where she is.”

What more can women do
but protect each other?

Knife in hand now, she steps forward.
The turned earth gives a little
under her boots. One hand on top
of the cross, she hacks at the letters.
They splinter and crack, until
there is bare wood cleaved and cut
where a name once stood.

These men deserve what they get.
She’s the baby, her mother and sisters
always know where she is.

Then she’s gone in her black dress
before any—alive or dead—can notice her,
this cemetery ritual complete.

~ * ~

[2]

Secrets of the Spell

          I. Wasted Breath

Spite stirred in guts like poison mixed incake.
Insistent maleness and disparity
Assembled heated breath, enough to hex
A British play. Heed this — or rue the day.
Old Scottish combat zones, intent on war’s
Mythology and trophies, replicate
Themselves wherever men fish for acclaim
To get their stories splashed across the stars—
In letters, law, or laboratories.

When males engage with chemicals, rank brines,
Intent on alchemy, employing fire,
Rapt by discoveries perhaps benign,
They’re being scientific, praised. They’ll bask
Inbacklit glows that manly fame bestows.

          The patriarchy does its best to hoard
          Awards — like weapons needed for attacks.

When females huddle over cauldron smoke,
Ancestral recipes astir once more,
Rapt by solutions stronger than strychnine,
Which sheriff thought, “Girls having fun outdoors!”?
Suspicious scribes malign spell-casting crones,
Implying they are doing devil’s work.

          The patriarchy does its best to warn,
          Forbid, discourage daughters, sisters, wives
          By commandeering rights to accolades.

Distrust of women’s power led to laws.
In 1542, King Henry VIII
Signed Britain’s first Witchcraft Act. Hundreds died,
Even if those accused denied the charge.

          II.           Macbeth

Elizabethan dramatists — all men! —
Put witches in the plot for novelty.
Meanwhile, witch hunts harassed the innocent.

          Misogyny’s increase deserved byplay.
          Real sorceresses jinxed “the Scottish play,”
          Their hex comeuppance. Bloodshed was repaid.

Macbeth depicts a pagan coven — though
Their wisdom’s minimized by childish speech
Like “Double, double, toil, and trouble” — rhymes
For children, to infantilize this spell.

With “eye of newt, toe of frog,” thespians
Portraying the Weird Sisters cursed the Thane
Of Cawdor, who rebelled against his king.

Macbeth’s debut was struck— streaked with bad luck.

          III.           Met Death

Before Scene 5, the Bard went backstage — found
Lady Macbeth mystifyingly dead,
Unnerving King James in his royal box.

Which elements affected Brits the most?
Staged sorcery incited constant fear
His majesty intensified with trials.

Mark my words: women have always fought back,
Preserved infernal mysteries. Bewitched.
Dark invocations learned by stealth live on.

          Macbeth’s unholy spell won’t be withdrawn
          ‘Til every “witch’s” unfair death is mourned.