Untitled – poem – Work in Progress


Good Catholic girls don’t
speak ill of the dead
They keep their lips tightly sealed
vaginas too
those furred beasts
that wail ‘feed me’
trapped in the oubliette
of the ilium
winnowing to skin and bone

It is really a wolf child
homini lupus
with fangs and claws
but with knowledge
of good and evil
hungering for God’s light

It bites the hands of priests
with their sour benedictions
and claws at nun’s who offer
purse-lipped smiles
It won’t keep mum
for family appearances

It loves its dead honestly
It is gnawing at the diseased vine
which is strangling the healthy tree
It is bathing in the rain
and, in turn, watering the roots of the tree
whose leaves turn green

Its own children are protected
by the beast’s ferocity and love
They all bay at the moon’s jewel
They learn to don a human face
but they are really wolf-people.

Lucy Simpson 9-13-2015


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