Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill Page A

eyes flutter.
    I crack awake like a hatching chick.
    The courtroom crowd cheers
    just as soldiers celebrate victory
    on the battlefield.
    â€œIs this your spindle?”
    Judge Hathorne asks Missus Putman.
    â€œYea, that be one and the same,” she affirms.
    Charlotte Easty’s petitions
    and her eyes like the newborn babe’s
    no longer protect her.
    The crowd has witnessed
    her attempt to murder.
    All yell, “Witch!”
    She will hang now,
    an innocent woman,
    and ’tis my fault.
    I try to remind myself
    that I am avenging
    true demons like Burroughs
    and Alden, but Charlotte Easty—
    why, Lord, must she be sacrificed too?
    And yet I am blinded
    to any other way.

ANN YET IN CHARGE?
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    â€œWell that you all followed
    my lead and sent Charlotte Easty
    back to her cell,” Ann whispers
    harshly at us and then stands to leave.
    Wilson sits and will not be stirred
    no matter how fierce Ann tugs
    his leash.
    Does Ann not realize
    that Charlotte Easty, an innocent woman,
    now will die, so that we will still
    be believed? That all of this
    might have been avoided had she
    not led the girls to release
    Charlotte Easty in the first place?
    The other girls nod, even Margaret.
    â€œâ€™Twould have been horrid”
    â€”Ann again attempts to force
    Wilson to stand and leave Ingersoll’s
    with her—“otherwise.”
    Abigail begins, “Did not Mercy…”
    â€œTomorrow at meeting no one
    shall cause disturbance. Understood?”
    Ann barks.
    Ann yanks Wilson’s collar, but
    he still holds his place.
    She meets the fire of my stare
    and hands over his leash.
    â€œI must go,” Ann says.
    â€œMother needs, well,
    something.”

FIRST WITCH HANGING
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    Black, she wears black,
    her petticoats like tar.
    The sky is white.
    I cannot look to it.
    Even her blood
    colored black.
    I cannot see
    but black and white.
    Old and dead,
    the tree that creeps
    from the rock
    wears no frock of leaves,
    not even in the summer.
    Charlotte Easty’s
    body convulses, her legs squirm.
    The blood gushes
    from beneath her blindfold,
    from her nose and mouth and ears.
    She dies slowly.
    She swings
    though no wind blows.
    My hands ball.
    I could punch down
    the clouds.
    There is such power
    in my hands.
    I bend over and retch
    like an empty water pump,
    for nothing comes out my mouth.
    The other girls gnaw
    on their nails, stare bewildered
    at the body hung on the tree.
    Margaret trembles.
    Her teeth chatter louder
    than shutters unloosed in strong wind.
    Abigail opens
    her lips to speak.
    I lift my finger,
    and she reconsiders.
    Elizabeth rubs her shoulder
    as Doctor Griggs
    checks the stopped pulse
    of the witch’s body.
    She then falls to her knees,
    folds and refolds her hands
    in prayer.
    Susannah stays
    wisely out of view.
    And Ann, Ann’s big eyes
    scour my skin. No matter
    what be about, even a hanging,
    Ann cannot unleash her eyes from me.

REMORSE
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    Moon past its peak in the sky,
    I wander to the meetinghouse,
    crack the door to gloom and dark
    and hollowness. One other figure
    kneels before the pulpit.
    â€œElizabeth.” Her shoulders
    rumble as she gasps.
    â€œâ€™Tis only me, Mercy. I, too,
    have come to pray.”
    I pray, dear Lord, for forgiveness.
    I bow my head and tears drip
    onto the dusty earthen floor.
    I raise my wet face.
    I fear this is only begun,
    so I pray, dear Lord,
    for the strength to persevere.
    Guide us to banish the devils
    I know exist among us, the men
    who harm, the women who sin.
    My hands quiver as the old
    and bedridden. Give me
    the strength to lead,
    for I fear otherwise
    we may hang
    ourselves.

PETITION
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    He comes right to the Constable’s front door,
    crosses through the opening
    without a knock.
    I want not to gaze at him,
    but it is as if the claws of his eyes
    collect me.
    â€œNever did get that ride.”
    Isaac smiles. He walks close to me,
    pretends