my brank

i feel thankful now that I am allowed a pen. the scold's tongue may be a weapon unfairly turned on others already weary with their own complaints, but mine, now aching so but with much less blood and spittle, is just an instrument of the words that will be there and be there and want to take to air no matter how Richard or the children or the neighbors or the council or my loving parents would like the member static. It's a rambunctious little worm though, I can feel it burn way in the back even when I spell the sound of r. I must learn-- ouch!-- to let my mind and its words have their freedom without betraying my body with signs of thought or ill feeling toward others. There i've written most of all that without a twitch. I believe it's not the blade as much-- for I've learned to relax the naked monster into the bed of my lower jaw to avoid slicing outright-- as much as a little nub of metal on a part that had not been envisioned as a jabber-- ha! jabber-- as a connecting bar to hold the four-bladed spike at the threshold of my gagging parts, so that I must be careful even taking soups when I swallow. This little nib must have been created while the metal was still hot; something nicked it, maybe the corner of an anvil. It's certainly bugging me now with the wound its created which i am sure is tiny but thats grown a hard defensive bruise all about it and a good deal of pus, from the taste. It's the little things that get you.

Who'd have imagined me, of all, taking the road of the wench, the corseted rebel, with my solid and treasured fame for years as a source of comfort from my wealth of verses, freely shared, even if I had to put something down. Hanging Jill's stockings on the fence or clipping kindling from a wrecked carriage can always come second to engagement with a fellow communitarian soul. Dick would prefer i stick to business, of course, and of course now i forever shall, His grace being abundant.

But I can still hear Auntie Shama's stories of our Christ and his pain a million times more searing than this silly brace. They couldn't even get the ring to stay in place when they tied me to a mule post on the green. Were there old friends present at the public penitence who witnessed my quiet patience and respectful demeanor even as I stood there with the rusted cuff, salvaged from an old brig, pulled loose from the rotten wood, dangling about my waist? Standing just behind the vicar as I was, would it have upstaged him further-- perhaps there was cause for condemnation even then-- as a lady with less pride might have fallen, fainted, or even tried to run and jump down the well, with her hands locked fast in mode of prayer? That they would have understood; they would have understood me then.

But now I am on this path, where it takes me. Goody Beth returned to a measure of favor-- they had her lighting candles and giving out sprigs of lavendar at Thursday vespers. Even women who were never her peers, maybe especially them, found it easy to smile and thank the poor wife and exchange an earnest Godbewith, even with her funny way of speech since then.