The Risen Suicide

[heslopian]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack,
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind).
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide!

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.