I found them buried
in my sleep, says Doris,
all feelings for him,
the love turned sour,
the anger boiling over
into his destruction.
Now I sit and wait
for the hangman to come
and take me off
to my last farewell.
The warders play cards
in the cell; they invite
me to play, but I can't
focus, my mind elsewhere,
but no where.
“Best play and occupy
your mind, Doris,”
they say kindly,
giving me a look
as if school friends
inviting me to play.
I lie on the bed
and wait; my mind
turning over each minute
like a puzzle;
the end-game unknown,
but known.
Then a panic grips me
and I sit up as if suddenly
my whole life becomes real
for the first time
and I choke
on the reality of it.
They drop their cards
and run over to me:
“can't have you choking
on us now, Doris,”
they say kindly,
but alarmed.
One puts her arm about me
like my mother used to do
when I was hurt.
“Let's get you up,” they say,
“can't have you
dying on us, yet.”
I stand between them
like children playing
a new game.
My life is so real now
that I see each aspect of it
so large and colourful
as if for the first time.
There is a knock
on the door
and the wardens
look at each other
then at me: “ Steady girl,”
one whispers,
the other opens the door
and he comes in
with a priest:
the hangman.
He is not a brutal man,
in fact he looks
somewhat like a grocer:
well trimmed
and clean hands,
yet formal, professional.
He takes my hand
and gently puts it
behind my back
and handcuffs me
as if in a new game.
Then he takes me
gently along to
the other door
and opens it and there
is the rope hanging still.
The warders
are out of sight;
the priest mutters words.
I am blindfolded
and into a dark;
words surround me.
I stand gazing
into darkness,
and my father is there,
his hand reaching for me,
and I reach out to him,
and the darkness becomes light
and so ends the long night.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
I found them buried
in my sleep, says Doris,
all feelings for him,
the love turned sour,
the anger boiling over
into his destruction.
Now I sit and wait
for the hangman to come
and take me off
to my last farewell.
The warders play cards
in the cell; they invite
me to play, but I can't
focus, my mind elsewhere,
but no where.
“Best play and occupy
your mind, Doris,”
they say kindly,
giving me a look
as if school friends
inviting me to play.
I lie on the bed
and wait; my mind
turning over each minute
like a puzzle;
the end-game unknown,
but known.
Then a panic grips me
and I sit up as if suddenly
my whole life becomes real
for the first time
and I choke
on the reality of it.
They drop their cards
and run over to me:
“can't have you choking
on us now, Doris,”
they say kindly,
but alarmed.
One puts her arm about me
like my mother used to do
when I was hurt.
“Let's get you up,” they say,
“can't have you
dying on us, yet.”
I stand between them
like children playing
a new game.
My life is so real now
that I see each aspect of it
so large and colourful
as if for the first time.
There is a knock
on the door
and the wardens
look at each other
then at me: “ Steady girl,”
one whispers,
the other opens the door
and he comes in
with a priest:
the hangman.
He is not a brutal man,
in fact he looks
somewhat like a grocer:
well trimmed
and clean hands,
yet formal, professional.
He takes my hand
and gently puts it
behind my back
and handcuffs me
as if in a new game.
Then he takes me
gently along to
the other door
and opens it and there
is the rope hanging still.
The warders
are out of sight;
the priest mutters words.
I am blindfolded
and into a dark;
words surround me.
I stand gazing
into darkness,
and my father is there,
his hand reaching for me,
and I reach out to him,
and the darkness becomes light
and so ends the long night.
A woman about to hang 1959
Request permission to use this poem