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.