Wicked Girls
straightens his back.
    Goodman Farrar, Isaac’s father,
    a small man with a fair face
    and the manners of a minister’s wife,
    sits aside Mister Putnam.
    He nods at Missus Putnam.
    â€œThank ye for the fine meal.”
    Missus cooked not a crumb on the table.
    â€œThou art quite welcome, dear sir,” she says.
    The baby wails from the nursery.
    All mugs beg filling.
    And the plates ought be cleared.
    I rise to tend the child.
    Isaac and his father stand when I do
    as though I am the lady
    I was born to be.
    Margaret clenches her fork.
    Ann follows me, and Missus
    nearly slaps her back to seating.
    â€œLet Mercy attend to matters alone.”
    Only Wilson be permitted to trail me now.
    I tramp down the hall
    and lean over the baby’s cradle.
    â€œShhhh,” I say until his storming settles.
    I clear the plates, refresh the mugs
    and set to wash the pots.
    â€œMercy,” Isaac says from a foot behind me.
    â€œThomas asks that you sit
    and take cider and tea with the family.”
    Even though he just supped,
    Isaac looks at me as though
    he has not eaten in weeks
    and would lick
    my palms to taste me,
    I smell to him so sweet.
    Wilson begins a growl,
    but I muzzle his snout.
    How lovely would it be to witness
    Margaret the Mean, the bloomer thief, churn
    because of my doings for once?
    I flick my curls behind my shoulder
    and bloom my eyes as petals
    at Margaret’s beau.
    I drop the cloth in my hands.
    Isaac bends to pick it up,
    and I stoop too.
    Isaac breathes upon my neck.
    â€œYe are—” he begins.
    â€œYour father calls you!”
    Margaret’s voice severs our air.
    But Isaac does not cut his stare from me.
    Margaret quivers in her speech.
    â€œI shall stay and help Mercy.”
    I scrub the pan to rid it
    of grease and burn.
    Margaret clamps my arm.
    â€œDo not speak to him,” she threatens.
    â€œI did not,” I say.
    I wipe my hands, turn from her
    and swirl into my place
    aside Mister Putnam.
    Isaac’s eyes fasten on me
    tighter than the collar at my neck.
    Margaret ruptures in fit.
    â€œGoody Hobbs pinches me!”
    Isaac greens. He shakes his head.
    His father, who has offered
    not an impolite word the night long,
    says, “We shall be off,”
    and leaves without finishing his tea,
    without a “thank you” or “good evening.”
    â€œBut Deliverance Hobbs
    admitted to being a witch!”
    Margaret’s fists pound the floor
    until her hands bleed.
    Tears wash her face.
    Though Margaret’s speech turns gibberish,
    I distinctly hear her say, “Isaac,”
    but I repeat this not
    for I know she does not mean
    to name him witch.

DIVISION
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    Papers stack the courtroom.
    Signatures Isaac gathers
    enough to empty an ink pot,
    all saying the accused
    be not the Devil’s kin.
    The Village divides
    like a gash sawed through
    the center of the church.
    Reverend Parris and us girls
    and those believing
    in the witches we name
    and them what don’t.
    My Isaac stands square
    on the other side of the church
    from me.
    I try and straddle
    the hole between us
    but it be growing wide.

MY MOTHER
    Ann Putnam Jr., 12
    Mother says,
    â€œRemain in thy room
    at lesson today.”
    Mother says, “See that Margaret
    has the covers she requires for her bed.”
    Mother says, “My head doth ache.
    And my stomach has unrest.
    Fetch me a cloth.” Mother says,
    â€œAnn, pick not at thy skirt.
    Hold thy shoulders straight.”
    Mother demands, “The next to be
    accused will be one who watched
    me as a child, John Willard.
    One who was too ready with his whip.”
    Mother says, “That Mercy speaks
    too often for a servant.”
    Mercy feels not well,
    and still Mother loads Mercy’s basket
    with mending and all the needlework
    Margaret ought do, and when I lift
    one finger to aid or accompany Mercy,
    Mother says, “Do see what thy cousin
    is about.”
    â€œBut my

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