I hide things when I write.
I must seem to spill myself all over the screen,
Blood and viscera.
I’m sure at times some of you have been embarrassed
To see my naked, stretch-marked soul.
But I am hiding things.
I am aware of a threat.
I know that those who call a spade
Often end upon that very spade.
I know that in this society,
People’s reputations are not hurt by their own actions,
but by the person who reports these actions.
I’ve been a witch long enough,
Tending my gardens,
Giving small healing antedotes,
To my sisters
To know that
No perpetrator likes the woman who knows his indiscretions,
Or those of his brothers.
They will seek to silence her.
You think I am so strong,
so vulnerable in my revealing words.
I have hidden my spade.
My garden suffers for it.
My garden is fenced in,
A cage of fear.
I never fully escaped.
My words are hiding in the bathroom,
The door is locked,
The bath is running,
And I dare not continue.
Sometimes, like now,
I fiddle with the latch.
But a message from a police officer
He is watching.
He is angry.
He is just waiting for the spade to come out of hiding.
Perfect Gardening weather.
I think it’s safe to plant the seedlings before Victoria Day weekend,