Judith E

Judith E. Johnson

THE TOWN SCOLD AT THE DUCKING POND

when the goodwives knelt at the pump to rub clean

their homespun, every word

tolled praiseGod or some formula of mercy.

she caught no good in it, cursed

the journey to promised godliness she’d gone,

the stiff theocracy

she’d come to instead. And found

once again, she’d said

the worst of it out loud.

Home in bed

half the night she scolded her goodman’s loins dry

till he swore if any stood up in meeting to name

her witch, he’d join the cry

after her, hotfoot, bring her down. Each round

full-throated amen he belled

with the brothers in thanks for their virtues turned her around

on her bench, drove her away

from God in him

or in any such proud men.

Once she thought

the Voice out of the whirlwind summoned her forth

to denounce, to vaunt: I’m no scold,

I’m Miriam, I’m called /

now, before all, He bids me stand, shout

ugly, unwelcome, my cry.

I was made to prophesy:

our blessings mock God,

being without / charity. Never mind my accent,

how dry,

my lack of parable,

how plain. I can’t make it

quaint or ornate, you’d take it

then for pure fable.

So held back not

speech but the final claim

of authority

not so much for finding the same

pride in her outbursts (when

she cursed them

for cursing she did as they)

but because she couldn’t see

herself dressed in lion skin

the claws flung down over

her shoulder or dangling wanton between

her breasts, her hair matted, afire in the wilderness

though she’d found wilderness

in plenty to burn in

she’d have laughed her message out of order; scorn

at what she would seem made her less than she had to say.

Fastened to the stool, hands pinioned down

at her sides, feet narrowly

corded together, the plank teetering, the soaked

hair glued to her nose, her mouth,

nervously silly, she couldn’t close her eyes

nor hold her breath nor even then keep peace:

spat out

gobs of invective the worse for being wet,

cold, ludicrous, obstinate,

interrupted repeatedly

by immersion

and sneezing

without redemption.

All that shuddering

sputtered hour the stool would not

sink under her weight

through the pond’s muddy bottom, fix her there,

she envied the folk

stripped and red

danced their lust round the whipping post, envied the witch accused

would burn honestly and have done with it, prayed

while her lungs wouldn’t let her take

in water

seemed to burst

with the pressure

of anger within her, around her,

that one of these scoffers might so lose

himself as to call

her witch, burn the fury out of her once for all.

Wouldn’t tell

them or herself or her God how if she’d not been

roped to the stool she’d have flung

herself down on the ground, rolled, howled herself dumb

for want of a gentle sound,

and kind, to her voice, a blind

heart in love approving all,

a sweet tongue.

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