The Spanish Inquisition

Death comes hungry,
baring not a scythe,
but a loaf of bread
and a bottle of milk.

My principles
tell me not to trust him;
he is the enemy,
a monster wearing vestments.

I am no witch!
But they would not listen,
and now I go hungry
and my baby starves.

I could take Death’s bread,
his milk, and go free.
Save my child,
for only a few names.

A few short names,
to go back home
and end this torment
and watch my baby grow.

A small sacrifice
of my principles,
but a large sacrifice
for those I name.

I snuggle my baby
closer to my withered breasts
and turn away from
Death’s outstretched offer.

It is not my death he offers –
it is the deaths of others.
My child and I are sacrifices,
so no other child must be.