Rebecca, insane at last
as we all knew she would be
the veil finally stripped away
by brutal love
more brutal than the love she
yearned for
at the hand of a shrieking mother
who kicked her in the stomach
called her whore at the age
of ten, because her brother
raped her.
Rebecca, insane at last
those dark wounded eyes
in the round soft face of a child
of twenty-six
scratching at my window at three in
the morning
wet with rain, forcing me to see
what I had done to her
when I withdrew love. It was now
when I treated her the worst
she desired me the most
and made sacrifices.
Rebecca, insane at last
a cold white hand floating
in a tub of milky red water
and Jean Nate
shoulder and head leaning to one side,
The Death of Marat,
damp black hair stuck to tiles
once held to a lover's face
like a bouquet of roses
blue lips vaguely smiling
as she punishes us.
