Anny Miner

Anny Miner Poems

The Best Poem Of Anny Miner

"Wicked Women" By Anny Miner

Chapter 4 - Isabelle. She was daughter to the moon, born with stars as freckles and
found dancing with the trees. When a man tried to comb the wild out of her hair and wash
the bark off her skin, she called the wolves, she sent the vultures, she watched as he was
consumed alive organ by organ, asked him, "How dare you try to chop my Amazon into
firewood for your own warmth? "
My mother is full of these fairy tales. She read them to me each night hoping I would
grow up believing in the power of my own magic, that I was born as bonfire chasing circles
during the witching hour. I come from a long line of wicked women. But they do not need
voodoo dolls or magic spells; instead go straight for the throat. Isabelle was my great grandmother
who fed her husband ground glass instead of sugar and watched him die because she was
sick of how bourbon made him mistake her for prey.
My grandmother Marie went through her husband's savings and bought herself a diamond ring
when he spent Christmas inside another woman. And my mother's story is still a family
secret. I will not tell you in case my father is ever listening. I am the next chapter.
Yet I still accepted the boy's fists as if each were a rose and I was a garden that
needed some color. When he left fingerprints on my arms like thin ice over dark pools I
pulled my long sleeve shirts out of winter storage and clung to his next morning apologies
as if they could calm the swelling. When he told me all the places he could hide my body,
I drew my diary into a treasure map awaiting an X and a dotted red line. When he broke
into my house I spoke quietly as to not trespass on his temper afraid that one more rose would
tip the bouquet and spill them all across my face, afraid that no one would find my
bones until the snow melted in Spring. When I look at my hands, I wonder how I did
not inherit her brass knuckles. I pray these fists were something they had to grow into
also. I still believe in magic. I've heard a whisper to summon the southern winds. The
wicked women are telling me that hurricanes are named after humans for a reason. I am
not making pacts with the devil. I am learning how to fight back against him. How to tell
him you are not welcome here anymore.
Last night I put on my grandmother's Christmas ring, studied the design it would leave if
it ever collided with skin, and noticed how it fit my finger perfectly. The metal began
to sweat, as if a storm was coming.

Anny Miner Comments