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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4684 Registered: 11-1998 |
Poem of the Week Last Rites Karen Corcoran Dabkowski (Razorwire) Bundy paced his cell, his heart kept constant conversation. The vigil keepers curbside begged Jehovah and the state to spare his life for even monsters can be saved -- (Jehovah crowed). He stopped to look just barely at the stars that would be gone, but the world he knew was made of doe-like eyes and dark brown hair. In worlds he'd known he'd hunted long and heavy chestnut hair. On nights like this, on nights just calm and close enough like this. The virgins he had slain had lain in pools of hair congealing; even now his groin would speak but not repent. A chair, a cot, a spare commode -- a clock. The clock was all. Echoes of the blood beat in the clock upon the stand. His hand was dry. His brain was full. Horrible, the scenes he saw that clawed their way to heaven but in thinking this, he caught his own obscenity of smile. The curbside lambs sang hymns, entrusting God to watch their daughters. while parents of the slaughtered shone like righteous seraphim. At dawn, the warden came -- a priest in tow. Bundy wept his coldest tears, then wondered, if in heaven there be maidens there be maidens lovely maidens with long hair. |
