79 lines
2.2 KiB
Text
79 lines
2.2 KiB
Text
|
None Nuns
|
||
|
|
2022-06-14
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Shadows in sheep's clothes,
|
||
|
|
lead us to the gallows,
|
||
|
|
to the place before my garden
|
||
|
|
where lies a freshly-dug hole.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
For although my soul quite often haunts
|
||
|
|
the school where I last belonging sought,
|
||
|
|
my childhood memory is blank,
|
||
|
|
tabula rasa, greasy smeared blot.
|
||
|
|
Something happened I cannot recall,
|
||
|
|
cannot excise from tangled Yewiffe,
|
||
|
|
inside the church where under bright lamps
|
||
|
|
I sweated in so-called sanctuary.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
All I comprehend, all that I know
|
||
|
|
is that there's a ragged hole
|
||
|
|
deep inside my weary soul
|
||
|
|
that begs for a sword,
|
||
|
|
a spear, a lance, some other blade
|
||
|
|
coated in holy fire that shall never fade
|
||
|
|
to put me to death in the name of a lord
|
||
|
|
I would never in my will bow my head to.
|
||
|
|
A voice with a body I swore off in my youth
|
||
|
|
deems it romantic, fated, that I subsume
|
||
|
|
my will to his and accept my place
|
||
|
|
in a pearly and golden-gilded tomb.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Mother,
|
||
|
|
will you forgive me after I'm gone?
|
||
|
|
Will you take these slivers
|
||
|
|
and remnants of songs
|
||
|
|
up to the hillside
|
||
|
|
where derailed my life
|
||
|
|
and let me one more time those trees haunt?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Oh, who am I kidding?
|
||
|
|
You never gave a damn about anything I ever wrote
|
||
|
|
unless as proof that against *someone* I was sinning
|
||
|
|
and needed to be punished for crossing a line
|
||
|
|
my brothers could cross as they pleased.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
That's all I ever was in your eyes, anyway:
|
||
|
|
just a pretty doll to dress up and display
|
||
|
|
as proof that you could keep something alive.
|
||
|
|
I became old enough to think for myself
|
||
|
|
and in favor
|
||
|
|
of my brothers
|
||
|
|
you pushed me aside
|
||
|
|
but demanded I alone keep up the regimens:
|
||
|
|
face sliced, breasts bound, jaw forcibly bent.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
And if you could, you'd drive nails through my hands
|
||
|
|
so never again could I write of the pain,
|
||
|
|
silenced, perfect sacrificial lamb
|
||
|
|
in the image of a Son
|
||
|
|
who deemed all "Other" and "Man".
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
I could never in a god who hates me so believe.
|
||
|
|
I could never impale myself on the altar of femininity,
|
||
|
|
so your hands itch to instead order cut down my favorite tree
|
||
|
|
to build this gallows. In the wind I could be swinging,
|
||
|
|
that child again, joyful, carefree.
|
||
|
|
The wind carries the crow forth and my last words echoing:
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
Do you love me now, Mother,
|
||
|
|
now that I'm your martyr?
|
||
|
|
That you've forever silenced my voice
|
||
|
|
that wanted to ring so loud?
|
||
|
|
Do you love me now?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
***
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
|