[The thirtieth installment of the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"Stoneface"
Jeremiah Healey
I commissioned this statue back in 1881,
And have been imprisoned in it ever since
My revolver's bullet scrambled my brain in 1913.
I'd been proud as Ozymandias to have my likeness carved,
Yet had I known this marble would end up encasing me
Like some awful, anthropomorphic mausoleum
I would have lopped off the sculptor's hands personally.
But I had no idea, same as I was clueless about Belinda Wheaton
When I confronted her with evidence of her petty witchery
And told her to be displaced or dispatched--the choice was hers.
For years after I ignored the superstitious babble about curses,
Until my second son poked his grotesque head into the world.
Even then I tried to find refuge in denial, but subsequent
Generations forced me to face the abominable truth.
Admittedly, it was the anxiety that doomed me, the inability
To bear the worry of whether my next child or grandchild
Would turn out to be a he, a she, or an it.
I don't know if I sentenced myself to this stony cell
With my suicide or my stoic throttling of my own flesh and blood.
Each time I squashed an infant's windpipe in my fist
I told myself it was for the good of the town--
The people looked up to me, revered the Healey name.
And tonight I have no choice but to observe this terrible procession
Heading my way, fronted by the disfigured wretch that looks
Like a full-grown version of one of those I disposed of long ago.
As I watch the rabid inhabitants of Grantwood dog the thing's heels,
I hear For the good of the town echoing in my rock-solid skull.
Still, I'm preoccupied by a separate, perplexing thought:
Can there ever be real good in a town born bad?
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