See there- my Molly, in death- so white
Coming clothed in flowers, entering the night.
My fate, through her eyes, is being foretold
My dreams, my wounds, my joys she holds.
Spirits, unpolished, stand back in aghast,
Molly, my Molly, has acknowledged the past.
“It’s not what I wanted! Not what I assumed!”
And with that, my Molly pronounces my doom.
My fate, it is sealed, lying warm in her breast,
Unless I chop off her head and eat up the rest.
[Above poem reworked from a version I first wrote in April 1994, titled “Marianna.”]