The Death of Albine ~ 1898 ~ John Collier
You wreathed my body in flowers.
I didn’t know guilt could come so adorned.
You knifed my spirit until I could no longer breathe,
drained the roses from my lips and danced
with the devil until I sought angels.
I hate parades. This march of black sleeves
parading across my cheeks seeking notice
is a hundred clowns away from truth.
How many more rumors must ears taste
when they are already fat with lies?
I lay here sentenced to dust while
a covey of scarlet offenses claim piety.
Is revenge truly sweet or merely the stench of decay?
My body will be absolved from my spirit’s consequences.
I will not go quietly into my tomb of draped lilies.
I will be the roar in a pillowed head counting sheep,
a stalking wolf devouring rest, a wraith ushering
my tormentors into the open throat of their madness.
Here in this time before wings I gather names
in the hollow cave of my breast until I know
how many shadows it takes to coal dust clouds
in an unrepentant sky.
Comments
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'I hate parades. This march of black sleeves
parading across my cheeks seeking notice
is a hundred clowns away from truth'
and
'I will be the roar in a pillowed head counting sheep,
a stalking wolf devouring rest, a wraith ushering
my tormentors into the open throat of their madness'.
Nicely done, Susie.
Your poem awakens many thoughts concerning cause and effect - that old trope of sin, confession and absolution. I like that your speaker remains kind of unrepentant for having lived.