I was a professor of whispering to water. Rise, I said
and waves rose higher. I said guilt’s
corridor as the men entered, said martyr as I was
slaughtered. The problem with God
is everyone thinks they own her. Magistrates
said, To the devil with witches. But I clung
cold as they tried to light me—clung damp, clung
soggy. I strapped a lake like a knife to the belt
inside my thigh. I was a stick
that would not light. Until I grew tired.
Until the men stood
roped in smoke, proclaiming, We killed her.
How strange. Killed her. Whirlpools
and tidal waves whispered
my name. My name was Rising
Like a Wave from Nothing, it was Rising
from the Lake Like a Biting Gator.
The history of pain speaks
its own language, so I listened.
Bewitched, pain said to say, so I said it,
and the men stoned me.
As each of them stoned me,
I said it.