It began on the beautiful day,
that's what she called it, the beautiful day
an angel stopped her on the Newbridge road
and told her of Christ's desire for her.
that's what she called it, the beautiful day
an angel stopped her on the Newbridge road
and told her of Christ's desire for her.
Three days later Christ started to visit.
He played hide and seek. He hid under beds
behind the curtains, giggled, hid again
until she collapsed exhausted, sobbing.
Once she dreamt she was with him in the tomb
for a blissful night before he rose.
Angela stroked him, kissed him, embraced him
What else, she asked us, could she have done?
When he did not come to her for days
she said it was like hanging, blindfolded,
from a gallows, hands tied behind her back
with no chance left of salvation.
She wanted us to crucify her
so she could suffer his shame, his torment.
We laughed until we found her in the church
spreadeagled naked against the cross.
Her husband hauled her to a doctor
off the telly, cost a fortune,
put her on tablets she hid them
in her mouth and spat them to the dog.
When himself and the child were killed
under a truck on the road to Newbridge
she tittered it meant more time for Jesus
and dressed like a bride for the funeral.
She died in bed, an old woman
unpunished, sins confessed, pardoned.
In the end she gaped at the curtains
and then she giggled, and was gone.
Published in The Blue Guitar (Salmon Poetry 2011), Glimmer (Cinnamon Press, 2010) and Cyphers (2007)
He played hide and seek. He hid under beds
behind the curtains, giggled, hid again
until she collapsed exhausted, sobbing.
Once she dreamt she was with him in the tomb
for a blissful night before he rose.
Angela stroked him, kissed him, embraced him
What else, she asked us, could she have done?
When he did not come to her for days
she said it was like hanging, blindfolded,
from a gallows, hands tied behind her back
with no chance left of salvation.
She wanted us to crucify her
so she could suffer his shame, his torment.
We laughed until we found her in the church
spreadeagled naked against the cross.
Her husband hauled her to a doctor
off the telly, cost a fortune,
put her on tablets she hid them
in her mouth and spat them to the dog.
When himself and the child were killed
under a truck on the road to Newbridge
she tittered it meant more time for Jesus
and dressed like a bride for the funeral.
She died in bed, an old woman
unpunished, sins confessed, pardoned.
In the end she gaped at the curtains
and then she giggled, and was gone.
Published in The Blue Guitar (Salmon Poetry 2011), Glimmer (Cinnamon Press, 2010) and Cyphers (2007)
RSS Feed
