Familiar

They feared your golden eyes,

the silence in your stride,

the way your silhouette

clawed the night

into a warning.

The said your fur hid demons.

They said your meows spoke sin.

They said, and said, and said

until the saying made it true.

The pious warned of black magic

while they were invoking it.

When they crossed your path,

they crossed themselves.

On St. John's Day,

they bagged you up,

pitched you into the fire,

named your mewls

suffering of the wicked.

What a strange faith

so afraid of witchcraft

it had to practice it,

so devoted to purity

it needed something

to cleanse.

I think of you now

when my voice is mistaken

for possession,

when my confidence

is called a curse,

when they need a word

for what unsettles them,

and reach for witch

the way their grandfathers did.

We are the same,

you and I—

unlucky

to have crossed paths

with those who need us

to be evil.

So let them pray.

Let them stand

in circles of salt.

Let them strike the match,

again,

and again.

We'll keep burning.

I started with the superstition about black cats crossing one's path being bad luck. When I started researching, I learned about St. John's Day and how sacks of cats would be thrown onto a bonfire, which made me think about women burning at the stake.

I am not sure if this quite fulfills the challenge, but I like it.

Here's the original challenge: