Uprooted

Incantations of Laughter

(For Abby and all the rest.)

They burned the witches.
Broke their collar bones too. 
Turned them from flesh to ash.
And threw them under the rocks haphazardly as you would the weeds in an unruly garden.
A backwards bible. 
Cast them off of ledges and broke their necks for herbal cures and birthing your children safely.
Finger’s pointing in their faces. While she wailed against her accusations:
“See how she fights us, she is…”
And then I pause to share the language that had survived the swinging bodies and unmarked graves:
“…crazy.”
And with that the latch on the doors are set.
And with that title you are officially unwanted.
And with that you are thrown under ground in a dungeon until it is your turn to ride in the cart at sunrise.
Judgement passed and the seven gables stand, still, black and haughty.
But they forgot one thing. 
When lit aflame and sent heavenward, their shoes flying off in two directions with a push or a crush of rock, or a drowning of water-they forgot that freeing the spirit would do nothing to stop the sensation.
There is a sound like the catch of a taught flag, 
Or the snap of a tree in a storm,
Or a rope on a porch swing,
That makes you listen more carefully to the wind and the rain or the silence around you.
And that is what we calling “The Coming”.
That creeping feeling up your neck that says…maybe you shouldn’t have done that.
Maybe you should have thought things through.
And now, with no need of a cauldron a Coven is called by a little box with light and letters, so fast, so fast the message flies. And whatever you did, it becomes Known. And all eyes, green, brown, blue and gray turn in your direction. Like a pack of wolves picking up a scent, there is a pause and then a turning. And a reconsideration of where to send our teeth. 
So many of us are waiting impatiently and frothing at the mouth when we hear of how you have done wrong, again. Yet again. Done wrong again. By us again. 
And we call that: “The Telling” and once told, it is never unknown. 
So fast is an inhale of breathe before a push out over a ledge, it has now become the moment we spill the dark secrets to each other. 
And then we laugh.
We cackle at it all, over airwaves and in person. Through Ethernet cables and across distance and months of time. We breathe in and let out a bark and a howl at your missteps.
To think you would be the end of us.
To think you would be the end.
The laughter, it bubbles stronger than any brew, and echos across space where hands can not touch. 
And lasts, where bodies were once cast away like leaves in autumn. And lit aflame burning the moon’s eyes with sorrow. 
We have learned there is no need for brooms to fly.

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