Fifty years ago today,
You made your name,
Made your grave.
Marble- heavy,
A bag full of God.
So many chemicals:
One for love,
One for sadness;
One for baggage,
One for madness.
I think of you,
Anti-Semitic with rage,
Denying her a name,
She's just a barren womb.
Not for long, Mrs. Hughes.
I won't accuse a Thought-Fox
Of locking you in a lock- box,
Of making you look back,
Look back.
Marble-heavy,
A stone in the pocket of Virginia Woolf.
A cruel truth
All artists face
Is despair can wear Calliope's face;
The same muse that moves the pen, turns on the gas,
And our best work may be our last.
©Fiona Helmsley
