Miss Havisham

Crumbly old wounds infested by breeding beetles
Shards of chandelier and wine glasses and glass plates lodged into her yellowed wedding dress
Cuts into furniture and her skin if she dares to move
Ancient clocks stopped at an exact time so every wall hears her breathe

She feeds on scraps left by the butler on purpose
On the burnt carpet smelling of rot and excrement
High ceilings and there, mysterious creatures crawl, four-legged and six-legged and eight-legged
Waxen face still in silence. Slit of a mouth has not spoken in fifty years.

She waits for the men who took women in vain
All the bad men on the streets who screamed at women they cannot have
All the bad men in suits who bought women who needed to eat
All the bad men in religious garb who forced their penises down young girls’ throats
All the bad men who pushed for more after women said no
All the bad men who wrote women like forgiving creatures or shrill shrews or objects of
the eyes
All the bad men in government who made decisions on women’s wombs

When they are herded in by the millions
She will combust into brilliant blue and white flames
To melt the flesh off their faces
And from their ashes she will make baby girls who will learn to kill without fear, insult without hesitation, and love without blindness
From their ribs slave men will be created
To join the New World Order

 

Painting by Henri Rousseau, “Le Douanier”, 1894

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