I was a behaved Catholic girl in my youth.
In the innocent formative years and tears.
Had a controlling physically abusive father,
Who never spared the rod for punishments.
Thought he was keeping me subdued
And the kind of girl he wanted me to be.
I wasn’t that girl, and I hated him and men.
And that hate stirred resentments in me.
When a full grown liberated woman,
Married three times, each husband died.
Friends and family bemoaned bad luck.
Here’s a secret I’ve kept nobody knows,
Though I wept at those funerals,
Like a good, bereaved, loving widow,
A spidery darkness had crawled into me,
Long before I became a fake behaved wife
And those three men in Grovers Cemetery
Were not coincidences, not natural causes,
Despite the coroners’ mistaken conclusions.
Bob Boyd