“I testify, your honour
that this here woman is a
consort of the devil!”

the courtroom was lined
with the witch supremacists
ready to call heresy on
julianna, the post mistress –

a man’s pride lay guarded
by wounded others, who knew
all to well the sting of an
ego bruised by ‘just a woman’;

“your honour, he told me
his wife wouldn’t have him
anyways – who am I to say no
to a gentleman?”

replacing adultery with devils,
to set the dogs of war on her –
such was the patriarchy
of a ranching land;

“what have you to say
in your defence, if anything
at all?”

the air was thick with
testimonial thoughts,
reminiscent of brush fire
burning through the mountains,

the nights of catcalls and
horse riding, and she left her place,
hot embers in her stare,
julianna, don’t you dare –

the wind swept away the ashes
as she rose, brushing off
their accusatory stares, now
tumbleweeds and open plains