An Answer For “No.”

“Milkmaid – lie with me.” 

                                    “Ploughman - dream on!”

“ Bailiff, I saw rude things this morn,

the milkmaid suckling a cow’s teat.

Sure as I’m born, white milk trickled.”

“Milk that stank of  . . ?” 

                                    “Witchcraft?”

“Witchcraft. Thank you, Ploughman.”

“My sweet bewitcher - lie with me.”

“Not you as well!”

                              “My rosebud, peach. . .”

“Hands off now!” 

                               “Suckler . . . I fear

your vileness was observed! Promise

to lie with me or magistrates shall hear

how you sent the ploughman for his frisson

to the horse’s wobbling rump as they turned the sod,

how, calling curses on our living God

you’d strip your girdle off, and give yourself

to joy with goats and donkeys!”

“Sir . . . you do jest! Begone! Such twaddle!

I’m to my milking.”

                                 “Maid, this is not ended!”        

“Well, Master Bailiff . . have you told the town

how Satan’s handmaid rips the hearts from frogs

and compacts these with feathers, which,

fed to young boys would make them daemons?”

“Nods and winks, Lord Justice, nods and winks!

The town smells woodsmoke.”

“Then have the turnkey fetch her. Ensure dry logs.”

“Madam, charges are laid that rest with me.

These can be set aside, and made as nought.

I have that power. Do you but lie with me.

I’d dress you in fine silks and tulle.  You’d live

in Great Hall, take tea with ladies, yours . . .”

“My Lord, what’s that they cry outside?  It sounds

like ‘burn’”

                  “Aye!  Burn the witch. But why,

when to be my wife would save you?”

                                             “Sir, my honour

is with God to give away. Who’ll speak for me?”

“Blameless you’ve no need of defence. Guilty?

No defence could earn your life. Your hope’s in silence.”

“Burn the Witch! Burn the Witch! Burn the Milkmaid Witch!”

“Shut the doors against that yelling. Jurors –

this harlot maid has whored herself with Satan.

One day a black cat’s her Familiar,

next day a raven. Her ilk search hedgerows

for hemlock, monkshood, belladonna. These

they makes ointments of . . whose spelling

lets them ride the air you breathe!”

                                     “Burn! Turn her on the spit!”

“The turnkey swears how in prison

she charmed the sparrows to take crumbs

from her lap, lips, fingers, while from the tip

of all three breasts – poured Satan’s milk!”

“In Christ’s name - burn the Witch!”

“Turnkey, what help? I do so fear the stake.”

“I’ve  nightshade leaves, which, swallowed,

turn torment to dreams and fading breath

before the fetters. You’d see no glowing torch,

nor watch your flesh ravel up like knitting.

Pay me in pleasure, against your dungeon wall.

You shake your head. Hag! Is your maiden hole

worth more than easy death? God damn your soul.”

“Burn the Witch! Save us from Satan’s yoke! Burn her!”

“See her writhe and shriek as they drag her out.

 It’s said if she screams when on the pyre, her soul

 goes with the flames into the fiery Pit.

 Silent, she’ll rise with the rising smoke

 to meet our Maker.  Few that well have died . .”

“Ploughman – the tavern! God alone is satisfied.”



(This poem written with the plight of Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani
in Iran in mind)