In The Shadows of Gall by Janie Hoffman

When I offer my salt, wine and polished flint
to a wooden cross bleeding ochre, I take care

of my tremble less the gnarled wood guess my ruse.
In the South, Cathars are burning, sacred oaks

are peppered with straw dolls strung by the neck,
innocent myraids spat upon and early crops burned

for cleansing. And I can only shiver, hide
in my own cloak until the sun drops from the smoky

horizon and I light a final candle. I say farewell
forever to my bag of little dolls, dried herbs

and the piece of gold given to my mother by a Byzantine
on the day of my birth. Aradia looks upon me in pity

as I bury my bag under the hysop then join the village
for the raising of a cross atop the temple of Sequana.

I fear the Spring will yield no buds in return for my quiet
crime and hide all new life from me under a wrenching

chill cast by the interlocking shadow of cross and sword.
And how to endure without the green of Summer?

The licorice mint, thyme and tormentil once so soft
under my feet, hiding my footsteps one leaf at a time.