Thursday, May 9, 2013

4380. MISS GLADYS O'MALLEY

MISS GLADYS O'MALLEY
In the churchyard where Norah grew
now lies Gladys O'Malley. Dead as a
natural moment, buried and done  - 
even as it is  -  with memory itself.
How nice must it be to have washed
hands with everything. Moved on,
along, O'Malley's gone.
-
By dint of death, she has it all ended
at twenty-four; dutiful daughter and
wife to no one, dead of a bullet and
shot from a gun. A self-same one.
First female suicide I've known.
-
Women don't usually do that sort of
thing, it seems  -  oh, those Plaths and
others, yes, maybe more determined
people and hotter creatures of a more
vengeful God, have such poetic gumption
in reserve at all times. But not dear Gladys.
Sweet of stature and short of time; sweet
of stature and short of time.

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