Heather OC: Week 91 of 208

The Librarian Gave Me This

I must run upstairs

To secure a bookmark

For her tragedy. Melancholia

All. How could anyone

Reading her not have foretold

Her visage, twisted, in gas oven?

Motherhood, such duplicity, and she

Confessed to it all on naked pages.

The albatross that assisted her,

Floating above us all. Women.

Writing. Luminescent in the extreme

Darkness of her half-moon;

Her poems each “extravagant -

like torture.”