The Trial of Marie de Moriet

Judge Smythe pulled a face:

‘Clearly a case of murder;
the details are clear,’
the prosecutor,
a man of fifty-seven,
announced with a sneer.

She had not spoken,
(needles had stolen her tongue)
not once in a year;
in ward fifty one
a nurse took pity on her;
the battle was won.

Tears rolled down her cheeks
as she took the stand that day-
she twiddled her thumbs.
A fist tightly clenched
forced her frail voice in stutter,
“He’d locked me up twice,”
she barely muttered.

“Speak up demon witch mother!”
cried one from the crowd.

“He’d locked me up twice,
chained to a pole like a dog!
No food or water!”

The judge made a note,
Then pushed up his spectacles,
‘Continue, dear child.”

“For days I would cry;
he would come in and beat me!
But when I broke free…
I had had enough -
My children had seen too much…”
She stared at the judge;
anger boiled her blood,
(the dart was cool in her hand)

The judge pulled a face:

like an angry wasp
The dart split the courtroom air;
it flew to its nest
(it stung like one, too)
and stuck to Smythe’s throat
just above the chest.

“Guilty!” they shouted,
(some were shocked and had passed out) -
Marie was long gone.