In sunless rooms she kept them:

Piecemeal corpses, all.

And each unlucky sap she trapped

She pickled, crown to soul.

She inventoried 

And itemized them:

Here the kneecap of a martyr,

Here an aspirant’s reaching hand,

Here a row of tongues torn from

The late-delivered damned.

Then one night, the dead rose up–

(Hers was no perfect science)

They stumbled backwards, hands entwined,

In malicious non-compliance. 

Then came the call 

For Weingarten Rites–

And soon the Seance,

And court hearing.

Then the spirits testified,

And so did she, 

Sneering.

The dead bore witness to her crimes;

The planchette leapt off its board from spelling.

The psychic scribe sprained her wrist 

Transcribing discorporated yelling.

“What a redundancy it would be,”

(Ruled the judge)

“To turn and strike you dead!

Why, if character is Fate, 

The curse is already said.

I’d return your evil thricefold

But that’s too cruel a fate.

After all you’ve heaped on others’ backs–

You’d crack beneath the weight.

Because I cannot curse you–

I’ll bind you, for these dead.

Before you ever command again– 

Dissect yourself, instead.”