The Crevice: Witness to a Mass Execution
by Mary Barbara Walsh
In 1692, a hysteria gripped the people of the Village of Salem, Massachusetts, leading to the hanging of 19 people at a location known as Proctor’s Ledge. A crevice below this rocky ledge received the bodies of those 19 accused, silenced witches.
Formed among rocks and outcroppings
Resistant to time and the illusion of progress
Located outside the village,
but within sight of the villagers
I waited for them,
Then,
As I do still wait.
That heavy humid day, September 22, 1692
I heard the cart plod up the incline,
oxen straining to pull its heavy weight,
a crowd jostling alongside,
dislodging wheels from ruts in the rough path,
removing obstacles they believed
placed by the devil himself.
I listened as its cursed shrouded passengers
muttered denials, begging, repenting,
even, shocking to the onlookers,
offering the Lord’s Prayer.
I watched, One by One, as they climbed
or were pulled
to their final destiny.
I saw their feet dance, then dangle,
finally quieted,
bodies swaying gently at the end of a rope.
Cut from their truss
they dropped with a Thud
and I welcomed them
into the sharp, fractured abyss I provided.
Each silenced, no longer a thorn.
Chaos held at bay,
Discord swept away.
For the Moment.
I waited for them,
Then,
As I do still wait.
Formed among rocks and outcroppings
Resistant to time and the illusion of progress
Located outside the village,
but within sight of the villagers
I waited for them,
Then,
As I do still wait.
That heavy humid day, September 22, 1692
I heard the cart plod up the incline,
oxen straining to pull its heavy weight,
a crowd jostling alongside,
dislodging wheels from ruts in the rough path,
removing obstacles they believed
placed by the devil himself.
I listened as its cursed shrouded passengers
muttered denials, begging, repenting,
even, shocking to the onlookers,
offering the Lord’s Prayer.
I watched, One by One, as they climbed
or were pulled
to their final destiny.
I saw their feet dance, then dangle,
finally quieted,
bodies swaying gently at the end of a rope.
Cut from their truss
they dropped with a Thud
and I welcomed them
into the sharp, fractured abyss I provided.
Each silenced, no longer a thorn.
Chaos held at bay,
Discord swept away.
For the Moment.
I waited for them,
Then,
As I do still wait.
Mary Barbara Walsh is a teacher, a philosopher of politics and a poet. Her research has been published as articles in numerous academic journals and chapters in scholarly books. She is especially excited to bring together her academic research with her creative, literary voice. Learn more about Mary at www.marybarbarawalsh.com.