If I thought water I birthed
rain—it flew from clouds
like yesses from broken
wishbones. When I walked
through town I recruited
the lagoon to spew half-chewed
lilies from its heart, to wrap me
in a halo of flowers and toads.
I was a beauty, so my accusers
hung me, il tormento della corda,
strappado. I was a bubble
in a cauldron, a beetle
on a brook, steam rising
from the beak
of a rooster-shaped vane.
When they swung me
they finally
saw me
split into two
ravens—one
to haunt them,
one to house me
and fly away.