I wanted to possess
something of my own.
I used my hands to feel the shapes
of logs and stones when my eyes weakened.
Then, since I had built this home,
I shared it with you both
when you came along—feeble from
famine, feet torn from rocks and twigs,
clothes tattered by time’s ravens
and not warm enough for the darkening
days in the deep of the forest.
I took you into my cabin
where I lived alone—shunned
by the same people who sought me out
for love magics and abortifacients,
who gave me only grudging
crumbs of old bread.
Miserly with so many men
mustered to fight in the emperor’s war.
No doubt my hovel looked like
a spun-sugar castle to your weary, bloodshot eyes.
Yes, I bathed you both. I killed
a chicken to give you wolves some supper.
You breakfasted on broth made from its bones.
I had mixed it with fortifying herbs. Rosemary
for your aching muscles, mustard for digestion.
Then when you were strong again,
you fled from me and led villagers
back to my door. They claimed I had
consort with the devil, that I
planned to serve you up in your own
luxurious fat at a midnight feast,
that I had cursed you so you could not pray.
All the thrushes swallowed their tongues.
Men searched my body and found
a dark round mark upon my leg.
When the torture did not stop,
I played the part, parroting
back the words they wanted.
I shivered on the dirt floor
until they lit the fires
that licked my skin,
reduced me to ash—
something of my own.
I used my hands to feel the shapes
of logs and stones when my eyes weakened.
Then, since I had built this home,
I shared it with you both
when you came along—feeble from
famine, feet torn from rocks and twigs,
clothes tattered by time’s ravens
and not warm enough for the darkening
days in the deep of the forest.
I took you into my cabin
where I lived alone—shunned
by the same people who sought me out
for love magics and abortifacients,
who gave me only grudging
crumbs of old bread.
Miserly with so many men
mustered to fight in the emperor’s war.
No doubt my hovel looked like
a spun-sugar castle to your weary, bloodshot eyes.
Yes, I bathed you both. I killed
a chicken to give you wolves some supper.
You breakfasted on broth made from its bones.
I had mixed it with fortifying herbs. Rosemary
for your aching muscles, mustard for digestion.
Then when you were strong again,
you fled from me and led villagers
back to my door. They claimed I had
consort with the devil, that I
planned to serve you up in your own
luxurious fat at a midnight feast,
that I had cursed you so you could not pray.
All the thrushes swallowed their tongues.
Men searched my body and found
a dark round mark upon my leg.
When the torture did not stop,
I played the part, parroting
back the words they wanted.
I shivered on the dirt floor
until they lit the fires
that licked my skin,
reduced me to ash—
Ray Ball is the author of the chapbooks Tithe of Salt (Louisiana Literature, 2019) and Lararium (forthcoming with Variant Lit) and a poetry editor at Coffin Bell. Her poems have appeared in descant, Glass, The Tulane Review, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @ProfessorBall.