written by: Loretta Barnard
She held her infant daughter in her arms,
the tiny thing did not breathe
and so before her life began, it was already over.
Mary dreamed her baby girl back to life,
she was merely cold, that’s all.
Bereaved, bereft, tears dribbled down her cheeks
became rivulets of woe.
She ached for the mite, ached for the mother she never knew,
Misery stalked her, gripped her saddened breast.
Planted the most fertile seed.
Free love claimed her Percy and he dallied
close to home; broke her anew.
Reining in her turmoil, she dipped into her arsenal of artistry,
dreamed a monster. By the splendid lakeside,
the seed began to flower.
She gave birth to her hideous phantasm
her nameless Adam, creature
of Prometheus: of Victor whose captivation with creation
was his downfall. Piteous pair, both man
and his wracked wretched monster.
No mere tale of spectres, the poet said,
Science versus deity.
Such skill to curdle blood, arouse revulsion,
transforming tragic losses into gold,
her horrid hellish triumph.