Mary Shelley's Mother's Grave

Mary Shelley, upon arrival

At her mother’s grave

Promptly began fornicating

With her lover

She was, a troubled soul

This Mary

Only in that

She enjoyed sex

And felt no need

To apologize for it

Instead, she reveled

She dallied

She kept her dead lover’s heart

On her person

In a silken shroud

But her favorite sin

Was the one committed

At her mother’s eternal

Resting place

Hiking up her skirt

She allowed a man

To take her, briskly

And with enthusiasm

In the middle of a graveyard

Where the spirits

Not belonging to her mother

Could gaze at her carnal activity

And wonder what sort of person

Could do such a thing?

Oh, surely

There are worse places

To carry on

In such a way

A church would be worse

Moreso the residence

Of a holy person

The Vatican

Or Israel

Someplace like that

But your  mother’s grave

Is an intensely personal place

And so to bring

Such an act

To the place

Where the soul of someone

So close to you

Lingers on

Seems a most grievous offense

The ghost of Mary Shelley’s mother

Was horrified

Or would have been

Had she been alive

And capable of feeling horrified

She watched, because she had no choice

There was her daughter

Inviting a man into her

To rail and thrust

Yelping like a fisher cat

Throughout the six and a half minutes

They were done

And then, when it was over

They quickly dressed

And removed themselves

From the locale

A tidy grin

On both of their faces

As if what they had just done

Was impish

Rather than noxious

In the eyes of our Lord

Mary’s mother made a decision

On that day

That she would not so much

As do the honor

Of haunting her daughter

The way some ghost-mothers would

Instead, she would leave her be

And never think on her again

Which meant she would receive

No supernatural protection

Or feel the warm energy

Of those who have passed

Holidays and high holy days

Would come and go

And Mary Shelley would be on her own

In a way that very few living people

Ever truly are

Her punishment

Would be the absence

Of her mother in this life

And when Mary Shelley one day

Would pass into the next realm

She would not find

Her mother waiting for her

To welcome her

And embrace her

And teach her all there was to know

About the landscape

Of the Dead

And that would be a loneliness

Beyond anything

Anyone could imagine

Even the most creative

Of authors

With the darkest

Of thoughts

Mary Shelley darkened

Her mother’s grave

In the most vile of ways

And if you had asked her

At the time

Why she would do such a thing

She would shrug

Cock her head

And ask--

‘Well, why not?’