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