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“There was an old woman lived under a hill

and if she’s not gone she’s living there still”

•

Adam standing on the mound’s top

his arms outstretched, his arms

stretched in accusing gesture

He is railing on God The west

seawind blowing his beard about

his hair a tangle of knots and wisps

•

And I crouching beneath

having been named a witch more than once

and a whore many times more than that

I am keeping quiet planning to have him

again if I can.....I let the knowledge

of myself rise up through the stony

earth and grass as though

I were a wisp of smoke rising through a chimney

but there is no easy aperture

I have to twist myself out

round and between the snaggy

roots of harebell and knapweed,

all those plants that cling to a dry

hillside where there are no trees.

•

He knows I am here beside him

but cannot see me, he looks to the west and the east

“I’m here I’m here, nearer than you are to

yourself” I cry out within him and he begins

searching carefully in his pockets for hairs

and nail parings and other wicked fragments