Mummified Words
(Based on a true story.)
At times she’d say she was “no good,”
None understood why she’d say it.
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth and knew she was putty
in his arms, she would be there when
he would call again. She’d store them
in the attic wrapped in the morning’s
news. Who knew of the spinster’s secret
family in the dusty trunk?
A “pillar” of the local church,
the children ran to her, and she
helped her Mom run the boarding house.
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth then stuff its crying mouth,
roll it in the morning’s paper.
One who had been allowed to grow
to walking age soon was grabbed, placed
among the silent ones. None could
understand why she’d say she was
“no good,” until nearly fifty years,
and she was gone. Found in a nursing
home, retired, he claimed he never
“got the news.” He had a sibling
who’d been married with no child of
her own to hold. She cried, repeating,
“life isn’t fair . . . life isn’t fair . . .”
In darkened nights and days she would
give birth and knew that she was weak
in his arms . . . in the small town where
everyone knew one another—and
attics could hold their dusty secrets.
At times she’d say she was “no good,”
None understood why she’d say it.