The Feast Of The Martyrdom Of St. Sylvia Poem by M.C. Bruce

Kisses tasting of gas
You lay down on your
Chosen cross with alacrity
And little hesitation.

They now blame
Your husband, your high strung
Heart, the poor reviews
For your first novel.

Fools. You knew this
Was the only way you could escape
The tedious beast constantly
Jabbering at your mind.

Poetry did not kill you.
Your poems were not suicide notes
They were small paper rafts
That kept you from drowning.