I comb my hair
silver cobweb flies
in an electric breeze
tells stories
Heterochromia of the hair
and other wonders describe
the landscape of my wanderings
across worlds and oceans
privileges my ancestors never knew
but for those fleeing home in search of
in search of better chances
better health hope, food, room to breathe
no disease
perhaps illusions perhaps
colonial confusions, ignorance
tied to desperation
and even earlier
in earlier times,
the dawn of days when my hair was glossy
brown red and corn gold
like the woodland waning
luxurious by season, pollen dusted
lives entrusted
though we knew not the past
the woman’s past, how minds were shaped
or the possibilities
then
what memory did she suppress
after 1727
after 1735
what suppressed terror shaped her?
conveniently declared too delicate
whilst carrying the enormous load of
childbearing childrearing bleeding
cooking cleaning
growing shifting slicing spinning knitting
sowing digging peeling splitting
lifting roasting weaving
nursing cleaving
stitching brewing reaping mending bending
trudging fucking tending
sorting
healing and aborting
but oh, too malformed to consider
the manly matters
of philosophy
of social and cultural authority
often ignored because
because what he did gained coin
more this, that,
weight, sex privilege
the economic arrangement
a sly design contrived to divide
resentment violence
conjured, made metaphysical
in scripture in romance in marriage
design taught as a god’s will
to capture
herd enclose embitter violate
hoard stagnate poison putrefy
rot
and when fetid to be
passed on to the innocent
passed on without effort
because effort requires effort
requires effort
requires effort
requires
the wide miles of blue
and brown and green not seen
not even dreamed
my heterochromia hair shimmers
shakes out through history
cobwebs and corn silk
weaving her own stories not documented
not categorised
not filed or compiled
unrecorded
unregarded
but lived
worn, actually and factually
known in her hands
in the fat pouch above
her sex, our way through.
Known
and remembered,
by each season
by the daughters who wake
in a cold sweat having dreamed
of lush countries or terror,
song~circles and moonlight
holy mushrooms and earthy stores
of power
of a dark old woman
standing in shadows whispering
once upon a time. Although
sometimes she’s hissing
wake up!
Note:
1727 was the year of the last recorded witch trial in Scotland (almost 300 years ago now)
1735 was the year of the last recorded witch trial in England