years ago a friend now gone

a sworn wiccan

devoted to diana

who would as we dimly recall

have nothing to do

with the protrusions

of the horned second half

of that bawdy bargain

spent nights sleeping

atop your grave in the

old north parish burial ground

in languorous north andover

your plot moldering as it does

in the damp remnants of

the sordid past

hiding behind

massive trunks of

corpse-sated trees

a few miles south

of her beloved home

in broken lawrence

some late afternoons

we would join her

for a bit of the frivolity

but what did

we think we knew then

that we no longer know now

with our beers

and our joints with

our half-finished degrees

getting so wasted

we’d swear

there were days

when your grave

moved about

returning at night

to drink more

to laugh louder

to linger longer

feel the chill of a presence

ancient beyond our sight

not to be outdone

in our habits of arrogance

in our daily aggravations

we’d proclaim our allegiance

to your rebellion speak boldly

of your kinship with the

burnt daughters we revered

a patron of the old ways

a warlock

a gatherer among witches

a man who danced

toe-to-toe

with fecundity

in these late years

from the

unearthing web

we now know

you were no

such thing

you were

a rapist a freak

at the center

of the trials

an accuser of

women who

so despised you for

the pain

you inflicted

on one

of their own

whose bodies

harbored so much hate

so much hurt

they believed

in their hearts

in their minds

with their potions

their rituals

they inflicted

the disease

and the death

you alone

with your vileness

brought upon you

they confessed

to the source

of the fevers

the sores and the

warts the puffy

complexion of gourds

that heralded

under the crows

beside the corn

the symbol

of the feast

of the devil and

the saints

falling

to their graves

one by one

in the very burying place

of your diseased bones

their dead hands wrapped

with beads pierced

by a cross

departing believing

in no god

only that

you were gone

overcome

they had won

but they were wrong  

as we were wrong

for here you are again

and we who played

in the cemetery

having been thus cursed

to live just long enough

to see you risen

in all your orange glory

imperfect evil

the embodiment

of indifference

fuel for pyres

the incarnation

of perfidy

of debauchery

stoking the rage

of followers who

have risen as well

from the depths of

that same hell

the fog these mornings

lifts and you appear

back lit by the sun

at the pulpit

of your second becoming

the ba’al zebub

pretending to be

part god

part king

holding in your small

swollen hand the gold coin

you stole from the republic

— May 15, 2024.