MORITURA PUELLA

JOHN RODZVILLA

 
 

For thirteen months, she set against the tides
With his ashes in her arms to remind her
Of the coal-covered coward who stole her life.
The urn, polished oak and steel felt cold
Against her fevered skin. In the end,
She grew too weak to hold the dead, who
Now sat next to her bed, opposite the bedpan.
 
Even in her dreams, she finds herself alone.
Like the child who lost her mother
Among the wine-darkened waves
while traveling West. Or, the girl who,
at the turn of the century, lived
to brew beer and feed the hens,
Reds, who were slaughtered
for her father’s supper.
 
Seconds before the end, her wailing voice and
Her fear came weaving through the room
As she broke from her sooted dreams and screamed:
“The Sea’s come crashing in. My teeth!
Where are my teeth?
Who, who stole my feet?”

 

 
 

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