The Bad Book Poem by MARINA GIPPS

As the daughter of two foreigners, I begat no spawn.
Instead my love begat Judas, a boozehound of winter,
nephew of Ruth and Uncle Jimmy (who took his clothes off
in front of everyone one summer full of hard vodka lemonade
out on Cape Neddick, reminiscing old Exxon pre-Valdez spillage) .

Poor Jimmy’s mathemagician son soon married a foreigner
from another planet with children he called Aliens.
And so they multiplied their brood in a magical forest of Hanover
Where no one could witness the impurity which led to Uncle Jimmy’s demise.
And so I snuck away, begetting only the misery of self—

Not albino enough to be as pure as the driven snow.
How frozen in the depths of primeval mogul madness.
I was afraid to go hither as God had invaded my dream,
warning me I was not holy enough though I lived in an unquenchable fire.
Blazing, I had opened myself unto Him in a shower of fallen stars

For I would never believe some forty days and nights of withdrawal
of love, pills, booze, and aftermath of Judas, wondering,
Who was mightier than I? Who warns we flee from the wrath to come?
Axe-words at the root once pillaged me, the holy hoax impaled fish
with wings flew away. Witness the broken crucifix of a wind-torn kite.