When you must climb the slippery hill, a woman’s back bruised
tender with heather, & frozen puddles are fingernails gone bad,
then someone is to blame.

When you must wade for miles through ragged-robin, the rain-knives
& bog-rosemary to beg alms, when the neighbours owe you oats,
then someone is to blame.

When your children curdle like milk & turn one by one to clay dolls,
& your husband’s fledgling-weak & you’re a good Christian woman,
then someone is to blame.

When you dream of a woman fucking goats or men with horns;
of waking the witch, swimming her — lime-scalded & vice-tight,
then someone is to blame.

When you imagine her face yoked in a bridle & you want to slit
below her heart & suck there; weigh her weight against a bible,
then someone is to blame.

When the merlin steals hen-chicks & your fields are blighted
like a mouthful of black teeth, & your cow stark mad
then someone is to blame.