Anne who was mad
is mad no more,
God's favourite whore,
that lay aside a used body,
like dirty clothes in a pile,
rose to meet God, she said,
and ascend as her words ascend
in me today to oblivion.

she lay aside the sickness
this weakness, all the categorised diseases,
just dreams, resting in the tired arms
of some man, some Jesus, her healer,
the God in her typewriter,
and all our love, now,
lying in her promiscuous grave
beside her—but i don't burn
on any body's pyre.


© 2008 by David McLean. All rights reserved.