They named me heretic and tied me up, 
but they did not burn me, 
for that would have been mercy. 
From the top of a trebuchet, 
they fixed my gaze upon my little town 
      to watch 
 
      as they 
stabbed my little girl 
through her stomach 
with a bloody blade, 
strangled my mother 
with her own quilt 
twisted into a rope, 
and dragged my beloved 
behind their horses, 
cheeks and arms and legs 
dashed against jagged rocks. 
 
I struggled against my bindings to no avail; 
all I could do was scream and plead 
until my voice was lost to me, 
save for the highest pitch at which I shrieked 
and cursed their lives. After they 
      murdered 
everyone in my little town, they turned to me, 
grinned, called me the devil’s bride, 
and said this was the price for my witchcraft: 
my craft of herbal healing 
that did not call for their Christ. 
They left their trebuchet behind 
so I might starve to death 
staring at the corpses of my family. 
 
Now I freely glide around my little town, 
shrieking at the highest pitch 
when I hear the ghosts 
of those Inquisitors’ boots. 
“…Just the wind,” roving children stutter — 
yet run home to living families, 
who tell that I am Banshee 
and when they hear me, 
I warn of a dawn’s death.