here am I?
Sleep has no place to call its own.
Who said that?
I wake in my wedding dress, my white, white dress, clutching dead flowers. I lay on a cold slab
with the dead in the sepulcher of my ancestors. I can hear scuttling beetles stomping like elephants
on the tombstones outside.
What happened?
My heart – my heart is not beating! I am not breathing. My body feels cold and alien.
What’s wrong with me?
So cold – but I fear the sun. So hungry – but food makes me ill. The animals flee. But the children
approach, the sweet, sweet children. To feed I have to eat…I have to drink…
Oh God no!
My white, white dress is stained with drops of red.
Where am I?
Sleep has no place to call its own.
Who said that?
I wake in this tomb. I can hear worms chewing on my ancestors. I rise from this dead womb. The
children still approach. They bring me flowers in bloom. “The bloofer lady,” they say.
The children bring dead flowers. They are dead flowers. I hold dead flowers. Everything I touch
turns to dead flowers!
My white, white dress is splashed red.
Bats cackle in the yew trees above.
Where am I?
Sleep has no place to call its own.
Who said that?
I wake on the slab, my body cold and disgusting. Outside the sun glares condemningly. I can hear
my ancestors whispering in the dark. What’s wrong with me?
Four men approach. My men! My sweet, sweet men. They will rescue me. They will know what to do.
What? They look at me with disgust. They repel me with faith. “Unclean,” they shout.
They paralyze me with shame. They arm themselves with sharp instruments. “It’s me! Help me,”
I try to say, but cannot move. My beloved attack with savage delight.
“Unclean!”
They rape me with their stakes and knives.
“Unclean!”
They kill me with their sexual totems.
“Unclean!”
They take turns stabbing me till orgasm.
“She’s asking for it. Look how she’s dressed.”
They cut out my heart and lop off my head.
“It’s me,” I try to say…
My white, white dress is soaked red.
This was supposed to be my wedding night.
(c) Joshua Alan Doetsch, All Rights Reserved
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