Gossip in Salem
Jacqueline West
It starts small, like everything else.
Two heads bowed together, bonnets touching
like two heavy daisies in a field.
Murmurs traveling with the hum of bees,
still light, still distant, in the sunshine.
And then the gradual collection, petal
by petal, drop by drop, sting by sting.
Soon the sound follows you as you walk,
a whisper like the dragging of your own skirts.
And when you turn, of course, there is nothing
to see. Nothing but your neighbors nodding
back at you, their eyes taking in the state
of your linen, the perfect whiteness of your lace.
With time, it gains mass and you gain strength,
used to pulling this weight along
as you bend in the gardens, take a loaf
from the oven, guide a child by the hand
through the narrow streets. You have
other things to do. Other lives to tend.
You will go on as long as you can,
ignoring the burdens that crush your breath
now, the weight that won’t let you raise
your head, fill your lungs. You already know
how this will end. How that first dew-soft whisper
was enough. You know how each voice
throws a twig on the fire. You know
how stories pile up, like stones.