She cannot see, though they tell her.
"Don't." She cannot fathom the truth,
unable to accept what the fates have bestowed
upon her. Sin, oh what sin!
To have committed the acts that she has!
What shame! horror! blasphemy!
She did not want to believe--
he, her own son-- blood and life,
now father-- her daughters and sons--
born of sin, of lies, of soiled blood.
Oh! Jocasta! Why did you not see?
A dead husband, mourning,
only to bed your son soon after.
And now she walks, to the room,
of life, of matrimony, and she pulls
out the rope, running it through her
fingers. Rubbing it between her
fingertips, and she ties it.
A perfect knot, and she wraps it
around her pale, thin neck.
"Good-bye my son, my beloved."
(c) October 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment