Editor's Note: These companion poems commemorate the tumultuous nature of the 16th century Anabaptist movement. It was a time in which personal religious beliefs produced heartbreaking divisions among families and friends.

Flight: The Anabaptist
by Charity Gingerich

The night hangs heavy about my stooped
shoulders, vibrating with the sounds of
nature and mourning. Soft echoes weep
among these hills I know—hills shrouded
from moonlight, wrapped in swathes
of mystery. Cowbells tinkle, their
tuned bells a call across supple valleys—
a call to conditional freedom.
Below, the candles of Zurich flicker out,
and deceptive calm reigns where only
fickle peace lurks in the hearts of men.
The hair on the back of my neck
stands high; phantom blades caress
my skin, my sweat runs thick. Blood,
the warmth of family ties. Love
is stronger than death she said.
But the moon continues to bleed
silently, filling the surrounding clouds
with black sorrow; and still she weeps,
her tears follow my wooden footsteps
down this hill which is as familiar to me
as the lines of her gentle face. Forever
is a long time when measured by time,
but in the scale of eternity, what is
this moment that I call life? Everything.
Everything and nothing; two worlds at war.
But halt! The night holds its breath…
the woods claw the heavens in despair:
across the way dangles a
lone star; it dips its feet in the reflection
of death where it hides
beneath the innocent silvery ripples
of the Limmot River.

And I follow its slender beam
to the other side.

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Alone: The Anabaptist's Wife
by Charity Gingerich

Listen! It does not breathe or cry out
even as the bell's sixth toll finally rolls
past us into the valley's gloom below,
signaling the birth of a day stillborn. I
and the goat stand at the gate—I to mourn,
he, frolicking, anxious only to begin his
day in the sunny fields of clover. Oh to be
only a goat! The sun bravely begins to
drag its wounded belly over sharp
sentinel pines spearing morning's
captive, bloodied sky. Ah, the sorrow
of the night was a cruel burden to
bear—the slow pain of a dream. But
in the looking-glass of a new day it
appears to me as an assassin, arm poised,
ready to deal the final blow. Let it
come. Jungfrau's granite face remains
hidden, for even she cannot bear
to look at what the pious have become
in the full light of day. What have we
become? What have I become? I hide
my face in my hands; no no, do not
look at me so harshly, I beg of the child,
who, waking, has tottered out and
filled her fists with blue skirt. I rest
a trembling hand on the crown of tousled
curls still warm from the pillow. "Papa?"
Eyes so like his stare back at me: two tiny,
guiles lights that pierce the marrow
of my being. A terrible mistake my
child! An anguished cry tears from me—
past righteous anger and terrible reason—
only to echo back like a chorus of demons
from every mountain's peak. Who will believe
me when they have come, with grim
smiles and chilling words
of praise:

I am the assassin who has dealt
the final blow and deserve to die.

Copyright © 2006 by Charity Gingerich Share

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