Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill

the room till they carry her out,
    and it is always like this with her,”
    Margaret says, and narrows
    her eyes in a sneer.
    â€œWhy does she not listen to me?”
    Ann shakes her head.
    Under our table at Ingersoll’s
    Wilson snuggles beside me
    without so much as a yap.
    Margaret’s feet stack one upon the other
    in a tangle. Her skirt sticks under her rump
    in a ball like she’s a little beggar girl.
    How can one so uncouth be betrothed?
    â€œWhat are you looking at?”
    Margaret asks me.
    â€œNothing,” I say.
    â€œPay attention,” Margaret says.
    Her voice slaps my hand.
    â€œWe’ve a problem with Abigail.”
    Ann says, “Something must be done.
    Nothing foul must be among us.”
    My feet go cold like I’ve slipped
    into winter’s pond without boots.
    Why did Ann not discuss this with me?
    Margaret flicks her hair behind her shoulder.
    â€œIgnore her. Act as she does not exist.”
    She knocks over a mug of ale.
    I turn from the smell.
    â€œBut Abigail knows not what she does,”
    Elizabeth says as she mops the table
    with her apron.
    The threat in Ann’s stare
    could frighten a wolf.
    â€œElizabeth, you are wrong !”
    Elizabeth shrinks back.
    Ann then softens her tone.
    â€œI fear if we teach not Abigail
    a lesson, she shall place
    her hand upon Satan’s book
    as Ruth Warren hath done.”
    Ann stands up, makes herself
    the height the rest of us are
    when seated. She declares,
    â€œAbigail is as one laid to grave.
    Speak to her no more.”
    Not another word to be said.

RANDOM
    Incantation of the Girls
    Sour voices on the wind
    name us liars, say we sin.
    Listen not
    to girls but men.
    For the witches we do name
    pass their days in public shame
    or come from families
    Putnams blame.
    So if we girls shall keep our place
    we’ll see some witches none can trace,
    folk we’ve never
    seen of face.

OUTCAST
    Ann Putnam Jr., 12
    Abigail’s sightings mismatch
    ours like sleeves cut
    from different fabric.
    Margaret, Mercy, Elizabeth and me
    call new witches into court,
    the first of whom we have never seen,
    Bridget Bishop of Salem Town,
    the woman they say bewitches
    children to death.
    We also name Giles Corey
    and his gruesome acts,
    the old man who,
    before any of us we were born to see it,
    beat his servant to his last breath.
    But Abigail sees neither
    Goody Bishop nor Goodman Corey.
    She can no longer sit beside us
    on the testimonial bench.
    The villagers see her not.
    She be as a ghost to them.
    For I have made her invisible.

A WITCH I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE
    Ann Putnam Jr., 12
    â€œI know her to be Deliverance Hobbs.”
    I point my finger at the old witch
    in the dark green cloak
    who none of the other girls
    know by face.
    I only know the witch
    called to question
    because Mother pointed her out to me
    before she sat me down upon my bench.
    We rattle and roll upon
    the floor, but our sounds do not echo
    through the room. I must thrust
    five pins through my hand
    beneath my skirt before
    the courtroom screams, “Witch!”
    Deliverance Hobbs confesses
    with her hands tied upon the stand.
    She unpeels her skin
    during Judge Hathorne’s examination
    and admits that witch blood
    courses her veins.
    â€œWhat do we do now?” I ask Mercy.
    â€œWhen a witch confesses,
    we stop our fuss,” she says
    as Mercy’s wails bury their sound
    and her body falls motionless
    as a dead cat.
    The courtroom hisses
    as they drag away Deliverance Hobbs.
    Mercy tugs my arm and says,
    â€œGood that she confessed.
    One less voice weakened
    our screaming.
    There was power in five.”

SILENT TREATMENT AT OUR TAVERN TABLE
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    â€œAnn,” Abigail hollers,
    but Ann has iron in her ears.
    She will not even turn toward Abigail.
    Abigail stands before Elizabeth,
    looks up to her with prayerful eyes.
    â€œWhat be happening?” Abigail asks.
    Elizabeth coils her hands into her sleeves.
    She