Inquisition She’s no radical. Her secret siren choir just draws her in Once she gave a confession like shattering glass up went the torches excommunication priests hurling insults children throwing stones The next day She stuffed her ears with rags cloaked herself carried talismans to shield her crossed the ocean Marrana in a new land still lighting candles still stealing kisses behind locked doors She’s no radical. She did what she needed to as did all the crafty girls before her slipping into night The crucifix was a lie then It is one now — no matter the reason they needed it. Yael Veitz