You read about them every library trip you make, women,
dead, centuries ago, burned on a stake. Bound to the remnants
of what used to be tree, consigned to ash and pulp, their deaths
footnotes in history.
Tragedies transcribed upon sheets, ghosts of some other trees,
the endings and accusations, women they were adjudged
to be. They’re bound in leather, found on a shelf. Their stories
familiar, targets of puritanism like yourself – a little girl in a
homemade, loose fitting dress, designed to hide every curve
from those to whom you are asked to confess the fires inside
you — every warm, glowing thrill. You decide very young
you never will.
You remember the horrors your firefighter father explained,
the flesh cooking on bones, the primeval pain.
You remember descriptions in history texts, the same,
the relentless brutality of puritanical flame. Researched
in stacks, all the men who betrayed some magical woman,
an error in judgment she made, for some — others just
too different to fit into societal norms,
women who decided not to appear to conform.
They are
EMBERS
you remember each day you’re alive.
they glow just a little, a warning
to those who survive.
