Immaculate, Immoral

A white dress, a red stain seeping across the front.
Inch by inch, soaking in like wine.
Tantalizing, tainted elegancy
Delicacy destroyed with red ink.

It’s on the floor, under the bed,
Behind locked doors
Where no one can see.
They don’t want to hear either,
covering their ears and humming a hymn.

Thumping in the wardrobe,
The sash of pearls falls from the gown–
on to the unicorn’s head.
The family presses their ears against the door.

They can smell it, taste it, feel it;
God almighty lashes his reign down from the heavens,
Now it’s seven years without rain.
Instantly imprisoned — slipping from the wardrobe
the red dress clings to her figure.
A painted ‘A’ appears on the dented headrest.

Courtesy of Nadia Zywina, Immaculate, Immoral, 2017.

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